In the Presence of My Enemies
by Dr. Platypus
Summary: War threatens to disrupt the first Triwizard Tournament. The heads of Hogwarts, Durmstrang, and Beauxbatons are determined to press on, however; but they'll have their hands full keeping the three champions—and their supporters—from killing each other.
1. The King's Chamber

Roger stepped out of the emerald green flame into a great stone room adorned with tapestries. Against his better judgment, he kept his wand tucked within his robes. He knew the man he had come to see could be unpredictable—and dangerous. If he had had the slightest inkling that election to the Wizards' Council would involve this sort of duty, he'd have turned it down flat.

The man growled an oath. He had been seated at the far end of the room, but like a great cat, he had sprung to his feet as soon as Roger entered the room, a dagger suddenly in his hand. As Roger had planned, the two men were alone. Behind him, the flame in the fireplace extinguished itself.

"G-good evening, Your Majesty."

King Edward said nothing, but warily approached. He stood head and shoulders taller than Roger, and though he was over fifty years old, he exuded an aura of unrestrained vigor.

For his part, Roger was uncomfortably aware of his own unimposing presence. He was at best of average height, with weak, beady eyes, a longish nose, and an overbite. His reddish-brown hair and maroon robes were dusted with ash and Floo Powder. He was certain an armed guard stood watch just beyond the door to the king's private apartments. He wasn't entirely convinced His Majesty couldn't dispatch him quickly enough without it—wand or no wand.

Roger cleared his throat and began again. "The Wizards' Council bid me salute Your Majesty." He paused uncertainly. "As you may recall, the Wizards' Council—"

"I remember your Wizards' Council," the king said, his brow furrowed. Something in his tone suggested he wished he didn't. "Nearly twenty years ago. That insufferable blowhard..."

"Barberus Bragge," Roger offered. The former Chieftain had been more interested in broom sports than in governing—a fact that endeared him to many wizards and led others to dismiss him as an incompetent fraud. "It is…ah…customary for the Chieftain of the Wizard's Council to introduce himself to the new king on the occasion of his coronation. Simple courtesy, really. We wizards prefer to keep to ourselves, of course. But from time to time it is important that we advise Your Majesty of matters that may affect his Muggle—that is, his non-magical—subjects."

King Edward eyed Roger skeptically. "Surely you don't mean to tell me that _you_ are now the country's chief wizard?"

"Oh, heavens no!" Roger protested. "My name is Roger, Roger of St. Catchpole. I'm merely a member of the Council. The Chieftain is currently abroad, but the Council bids me to inform you—"

"Abroad, you say?" The king's eyes narrowed to slits. "He's not in Gascony, by any chance?"

Roger's face began to flush. "As a matter of fact, Your Majesty, Chieftain Edelbert is in consultation with his counterpart in Gascony. Given the circumstances…"

"The circumstances!" King Edward thundered. Roger drew his hand toward his chest, but resisted the urge to draw his wand. "King Philip invades my overseas territory, campaigns throughout the spring while I struggle to launch a counter-offensive, and now, not three weeks ago, openly proclaims that he has confiscated Gascony and brought it into direct subjection to the French crown. And all you wizards can do is _consult_ with each other?"

Roger sighed. He knew before he arrived this meeting was not likely to go well, but he had at least hoped to discuss his business civilly before His Majesty demanded answers about Gascony.

"Your Majesty, I'm sure you realize that King Philip also has wizard subjects. If all of us were to become actively involved in the affairs of our Muggle sovereigns…. Well, I doubt Your Majesty would care to see what might happen."

The king furrowed his brow.

"You may not be aware, but the Wizards' Council has offered you such assistance as it has deemed prudent: some of us travel with Your Majesty's troops, applying their skills in the healing arts, communicating over long distances, interrogating French prisoners through the distinctive means at our disposal. Others who are gifted with Sight make known to your generals whatever divinations or prophecies might be relevant to Your Majesty's interests. But we cannot use offensive magic in your cause, Your Majesty, or the French wizards would surely do the same. You cannot imagine what devastation that would bring upon both our countries."

The king considered this, but apparently without being persuaded. "Even so," he finally said, "you'll forgive me if I find your bloody Council's support a bit wanting."

"As I said, Your Majesty, we prefer not to make our presence known. That would cause too many problems both for you and for us."

There was an uncomfortable silence. King Edward sheathed his dagger, for which Roger breathed a prayer of thanks.

"W-with all due respect, Your Majesty," Roger pressed on, "I wasn't sent here to discuss the situation on the continent. Although I assure you it has been a matter of much discussion at Council."

"I'm listening," the king said.

"Well, Your Majesty…" Roger struggled to find a less objectionable way to say what he had to say. In the end, he hoped King Edward would respect the direct approach. "The Council wish to inform you that it will shortly be transporting a number of dangerous creatures into the country." The king's eyebrows arched. Roger pressed on quickly. "I assure you, they'll be under the constant supervision of trained handlers. We really don't expect any problems, mind you, but the Council thought it b-best for you to know."

Roger could see the king's mind racing, connecting the dots. "Dangerous creatures? You mean…_magical_ creatures?" The word "magical" seemed to leave an unpleasant taste in the king's mouth.

"F-for a…a sort of tournament, Your Majesty. A competition among the best and brightest young wizards in Europe. It is scheduled to commence this fall, and Hoggewartes is honored to be the host."

"Hoggewartes, who is bloody Hoggewartes?"

"Not who, Your Majesty. What. Hoggewartes is a school of witchraft and wizardry, the finest there is. It's located in Scotland."

"Scotland?" the King said. "Does King John know about this?"

"My understanding is that the Scottish Wizards' Council intend to discuss with him the matter of the magical creatures. Perhaps they already have. I don't know what they may or may not have told him about Hoggewartes, Your Majesty. But it is not properly a Scottish institution; it serves young witches and wizards from throughout the Isles."

"The Isles, you say. But not my rightful holdings in France?"

Roger bit his lip. "The French have their own wizarding school, Your Majesty. Although I believe a fair number of your Gascon subjects send their sons and daughters to Hoggewartes."

"And you find it advisable to proceed with this competition, despite the war?"

Roger sighed. "We have been planning this tournament for several years now, Your Majesty. I'm afraid it would be quite impossible to back out now—a terrible loss of face for British wizards."

King Edward glared at Roger but merely grunted, which the wizard interpreted to mean he was finished talking.

"As I said, Your Majesty, we really don't expect any problems, my visit was a matter of simple—"

"Simple courtesy, yes," the king said with a scowl. "Was there anything else?"

"N-no, Your Majesty. By your leave, I'll just…uh…"

Roger bowed deeply and backed toward the fireplace. He pulled his small box of Floo Powder from inside his robes, fumbled it open, and tossed a pinch on the wood. It immediately erupted into brilliant green flames. Roger bowed himself into the flame and vanished.

Only then did he realize he had neglected to tell the king what sorts of dangerous creatures the Wizards' Council would be importing. But he was also grateful the king hadn't bothered to ask whence the contestants in the first Triwizard Tournament would come.

* * *

><p>• At 6' 2" (188 cm), King Edward I of England was remarkably tall for men of his era. His imposing height earned him the nickname "Longshanks."<p>

• Gascony was the last portion of France controlled by the Plantagenet kings of England. King Philip IV of France invaded Gascony in January 1294. On 14 May, he announced the province's return to French control.

• In 1292, Edward resolved a succession crisis in Scotland by favoring John de Balliol over Robert de Brus as the next king of that country. As a condition of his arbitration, Edward demanded Scotland recognize his feudal overlordship, and constantly sought to undermine John's authority throughout his brief reign.

Author's note: Ms. Rowling places the first Triwizard Tournament "seven hundred years" prior to 1994. Although this could easily be understood as an imprecise estimate, setting the event in 1294 precisely lends itself to what I hope will be an interesting story setting.


	2. Storm Clouds

Krasa glanced first at one, then another, of the others gathered in a back room of the village tavern. It was a warm early-August morning, but that didn't begin to describe the temperature she felt. Her Latin was merely passable, but anyone could have picked up on the tension that filled the room like morning mist.

"I assure you, Ydevert, your students have nothing to fear traveling to Hoggewartes." The speaker was a witch perhaps a bit older than Krasa's fifty-three years. Her eyes were piercing and watchful, suggesting a keen mind and a wary disposition. "The Wizards' Council is committed to the security of all parties concerned. Isn't that right, Roger?"

The gimlet-eyed witch turned to the weaselly-looking wizard at her side. "Absolutely, Headmistress," he said. "You have my personal assurance on the matter."

The ancient wizard to her left leaned in to whisper in Russian, "If that fool is in charge of security, we'll have to ensure the safety of our own students."

"I'll make a note of it, Highmaster."

Across the table, a dark-haired wizard with an aquiline nose scoffed openly. "Your king is raising an army to invade France, Custance! Or haven't you heard? I must have greater assurance than the word of this _functionary_ that all French subjects traveling to the Triwizard Tournament will be granted safe passage."

"This 'functionary,' Ydevert, has led the Council's planning for this event for the past three years. He speaks as Chieftain Edelbert's personal representative, and deserves the respect that accrues to that position—as you know perfectly well." The Hoggewartes Headmistress might have burned holes in her French counterpart's swarthy forehead with her stare. He muttered something in French, which Krasa couldn't follow. Headmistress Custance practically rose from the table as she spat out a retort in the same language. The two went back and forth for several uncomfortable minutes, the unassuming Councilwizard between them occasionally raising his hands in conciliatory gestures that went completely unheeded.

"If I may," Krasa's venerable Highmaster said at last, returning the conversation to Latin. His tone was even, restrained, but forceful nonetheless. His silver-white hair reflected the lamp light of the room, giving the impression of a halo around his weathered face. His silky demeanor suggested something not quite in keeping with angelic innocence.

"If I may," he said again. Finally the two other heads noticed that he was speaking. "Headmistress Custance is quite right that too much planning—and, indeed, too much gold—has already been invested in this Triwizard Tournament. Each of our schools has cut corners and pressured donors for three years to raise the necessary funds. Cancelling the event would mean a loss for all of us."

"Hear, hear!" Roger the Councilwizard blurted, then quickly retreated under Ydevert's scathing glance.

"Even so, Headmaster Ydevert has a point: The issue of security must be addressed. And it must be addressed realistically and without prejudice."

"Precisely," Ydevert exulted. "Do continue, Highmaster van Durmstrang."

The Highmaster proceeded as if he hadn't heard the French headmaster's affirmation. "It has not escaped my attention, Custance, that Hoggewartes is in a precarious state already without the presence of any visitors from Bels-bastons or from my own Institute. Or will you pretend that all your Scottish, English, Welsh, and Irish students get along together in perfect harmony? For all your King Edward's aspirations of imperial rule, my sense is that he has his hands full here on your own little islands."

"Indeed!" Ydevert added. "And yet he has the temerity to demand of King John Scottish troops and funds to launch an invasion of France!"

Highmaster van Durmstrang allowed himself a passing wink at Krasa as he turned to face the Bels-bastons headmaster. "I wouldn't be so quick to claim the moral high ground, Ydevert," he said. "The last I heard, Provence is ruled by the Kingdom of Naples, is it not? Your own student body must represent quite a range of political opinion: French, Neapolitan, Gascon, Lombard, Burgundian…. How many at Bels-bastons even think of themselves as subjects of King Philip? How many of them care that he has confiscated Gascony from the House of Plantagenet?"

Ydevert fumed. Highmaster van Durmstrang sat comfortably in his chair.

"Do I understand you to say, Ghert," Custance asked, "that the situation is at all different at your own school?"

"Indeed it is, Custance," he said. "Durmstranga Ostrog exists beyond the reach of any Muggle government, and we are far more _selective_ in whom we admit to our student body. My students are loyal to me and no one else. They care little for the politics of their inferiors. It is a lesson which, regrettably, neither Hoggewartes nor Bels-bastons has yet learned."

Krasa sensed the mood of the room subtly shift—in what direction, she was not entirely sure. There was a moment of silence, into which Ghert van Durmstrang delivered the news he had been itching to divulge.

"For instance," he said, as if discussing the weather or the upcoming harvest, "it matters not to me, nor will it to my German students, that the Count of Flanders is at this moment mediating an alliance between England and the Holy Roman Empire."

"How do you know this?" Ydevert thundered.

"I have my sources," the Highmaster shrugged.

"You lie!"

"Believe what you wish, Headmaster. For my part, I am confident that it is the truth."

The room exploded into a torrent of French profanity. Krasa didn't understand a word of it, but she blushed all the same. Headmistress Custance shook a pudgy finger at Headmaster Ydevert as both rose to their feet. Between them, Roger implored them both to settle down. He may as well have been speaking in Gobbledegook.

"Let us take our leave, Krasa Baikisheva," Highmaster van Durmstrang whispered. No one seemed to care or even notice as the two slid out of their seats and slipped into the tavern's public room.

"And now, we simply let them fight, Highmaster?"

"Of course, Krasa. The higher their passion, the less likely they will proceed rationally." The Highmaster stopped to admire three ancient broomsticks fastened to the wall above the hearth—gifts, he had been told, from one of the Hoggewartes founders three hundred years ago.

"And the more likely our champion will win the Triwizard Cup."

"You still think too small, you silly woman." Krasa winced at her Highmaster's rebuke as if she were still his student. He motioned for her to continue toward the exit. "Don't get me wrong: Triwizard Cup would indeed be a prize worth winning. We must do all we can to ensure that our champion emerges victorious."

"But?"

"But the reactions just now of the Hoggewartes and Bels-bastons heads merely confirm what I have long suspected: both schools are too entangled in Muggle politics for their own good. With a little bit of…encouragement…that flaw might well prove their undoing. And of course, that would leave our own school well positioned for years to come."

"I see."

"You must always think ahead, Krasa Baikisheva. I am ninety-four years old, and one day you will be Highmistress at Durmstranga Ostrog. I intend to bequeath you a school without rival in all of Europe."

Outside, the sky was clear and bright—a far cry from the raging tumult inside. Krasa and the Highmaster nodded politely to a mendicant monk strolling up High Street toward the Hoggesmede chapel, then resumed their whispered conversation.

"The prospective champions are to arrive here in late October. I want you to accompany our contingent, Krasa."

"Me?" Krasa protested.

"I shall come for the third task, but I prefer for you to oversee things here until then. I expect you to seize whatever opportunities fate hands you. You understand."

"Of course, Highmaster. I am honored."

"Then let us be gone. Our ship is waiting at Obar Dheathain." As they reached the village boundary line, the two turned on the spot and abruptly vanished with a pop.

* * *

><p>• In the thirteenth century, French was still the language of the English upper class.<p>

• After Philip IV's attempts to conquer Burgundy and Flanders, Guy of Dampierre, Count of Flanders, mediated an alliance between Edward I of England and Adolf of Nassau, "King of the Romans." The alliance was formally ratified in the Treaty of Nuremberg, 24 August 1294. One week later, Adolf sent a declaration of war to the French king.

• Obar Dheathain (Aberdeen) was one of only a few important sea ports in medieval Scotland.


	3. A Foreigner Here

Gershom had followed the news from Paris as best he could. The last owl from his parents left him conflicted about leaving the country at all. The English had finally launched their invasion. Many students at Bels-bastons requested leave to return to their homes and, if necessary, fight to defend them. Headmaster Ydevert discouraged such sentiments, after a fashion. He wondered aloud whether it was better for wizards to stay out of what was at bottom a Muggle matter. Even so, he dutifully granted the requests of nearly everyone who asked. The only exceptions were the oldest and most talented students. Those, he insisted, must accompany him to Hoggewartes and submit their names to the Goblet of Fire—whatever that was.

Now the Abraxan-drawn carriage gracefully descended over the lake. Hoggewartes Castle passed just outside Gershom's window. He sighed as the carriage rounded Rafne-claue Tower on its approach to a flat stretch of ground between the castle and the forest.

"So this is Hoggewartes," a sixteen-year-old girl commented, leaning over Gershom's shoulder to get a better view. The carriage was much larger on the inside that on the outside. Gershom and his schoolmates were all mostly congregating in a well-appointed sitting room, although some were still changing into their best robes.

"Does it make you homesick, Georges?"

Gershom sighed. His schoolmates always called him by his _kinnui_, but he thought of his _shem ha-qodesh_ as his "real" name. _Ger sham_: "a foreigner here." It seemed to fit equally well in England as in France. But moreso, it seemed, now that he was back in England.

"Not since Longshanks invited us to leave," he said, tight-lipped. "That was four years ago, Elena. Paris is my home now. The Academy at Bels-bastons is my school."

"Of course, Georges, of course," Elena protested. The carriage touched ground with a gentle thump. "It's just that this place is so different—so wild, out here in the middle of nowhere. Not like our palace in the middle of a bustling wizard village."

Gershom nodded. "Hoggesmede is no Bels-bastons, that's for sure."

"Attention, students!" Headmaster Ydevert's voice sliced through the hubbub of a half-dozen conversations. All eyes turned toward his regal figure, decked out in a luxurious powder-blue robe, a pectoral medallion emblazoned with the Academy's crest upon his chest.

Twenty students leaped to their feet and stood at attention.

"I'm sure I need not remind you that I expect every one of you to be on your best behavior. You are the flower of Bels-bastons. The best of the best. One of you will have the honor and privilege of representing the Academy as its first ever Triwizard Champion.

"As you know, the stated purpose of the Triwizard Tournament is to foster greater understanding amongst our various schools. So, do not be afraid to learn from the Hoggewartes and Durmstrang students. Socialize with them if you are so inclined. Let them learn to respect you—and the name of Bels-bastons. It should not be too difficult."

There was a stifled titter from some at the Headmaster's last comment.

"I am aware that some of you will have additional reasons for wanting to compete in this Tournament," Headmaster Ydevert continued. " You want your school to prevail, of course, but you also want to strike a blow against the English."

A murmur of assent rumbled through the carriage's sitting room. Gershom found himself joining in. He felt his pulse suddenly racing.

"I cannot say I blame you, but I ask you to do nothing rash. Let your actions speak for the rightness of your cause, my students. You have nothing to prove."

"Support our champion however you can." Ydevert paused. "A Bels-bastons victory ought to put the bloody _goddams_ in their place."

The sitting room erupted in riotous applause.

* * *

><p>Led by their regal headmaster, the Bels-bastons students marched across the lawn toward Hoggewartes castle. A throng of students and teachers waited on the steps to greet them. Gershom studied the crowd, wondering if he would recognize any of his former classmates.<p>

Of course, there was no forgetting the piercing eyes of the headmistress, Custance Brekebac. Most of the faculty was the same as when he was a second-year. In truth, he didn't expect anything different.

To one side stood a group of students who must have been from Durmstrang. In their midst was a tall, steely woman in a blood-red cloak. She was old enough to be Gershom's mother, but he could tell she must have been quite attractive in her younger days.

Headmistress Custance offered words of welcome to Headmaster Ydevert, then everyone filed into the castle and toward the Great Hall. It was much as Gershom remembered it. The ceiling reflected the twilight sky above it, with only the brightest stars beginning to become visible. The headmaster processed to the faculty table along with the Durmstrang woman and the other teachers and dignitaries.

Gershom surprised himself by drifting unconsciously toward the Rafne-claue table and pulling up a seat. Not knowing any better, his schoolmates followed his lead. The Hoggewartes students took up their customary places. Gryphon-d'Or House seemed to have already adopted the Durmstrang students, prompting Gershom to shake his head in disbelief. _If the Durmstrangers are anything like Gryphons-d'Or, we'll win the Cup for sure—unless they award points for idiocy!_

The Headmistress delivered her opening remarks about sportsmanship and international magical cooperation, but Gershom was too preoccupied taking everything in. A blonde girl at the Sleythering table seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn't remember her name. The Hofel-pap students listened intently to every word their headmistress uttered.

At last, the signal was given and dinner magically appeared on the tables. While everyone else dug into roast mutton, ham, and stuffed partridge, Gershom helped himself to an assortment of breads, cheeses, and vegetables.

He ate in silence, intrigued by the brief snatches of conversation he overheard.

"…and it's pure luck I even got here," a pale-faced boy whispered a couple of seats away. "No sooner had I made it to Hoggewartes, Prince Madog issued the call to arms. The English buttoned up Rhuddlan so tight you couldn't get out on a broomstick!"

"Be thankful you weren't in Caerwys," another boy with the same Welsh accent interjected. "I heard—" But Gershom never found out what the second boy had heard. He suddenly stopped as he noticed the glares of other students further down the table.

The Welcoming Feast went on for some time when there was a bustle of activity on the podium in front of the faculty table. A long-nosed, beady-eyed man in a maroon robe brought a huge rough-hewn goblet from a side room. Something inside it was ablaze with brilliant blue fire.

Headmistress Custance once again rose to address the banqueters.

"Ladies and gentlemen: the Goblet of Fire!" she exulted. "Any student wishing to be considered to represent his or her school in the Triwizard Tournament shall write their name on a piece of parchment and deposit it in the Goblet of Fire, which will be moved to the entrance hall later tonight. Tomorrow night, All Hallows Eve, the Goblet will reveal the names of the three school champions."

The feast concluded, the Bels-bastons students retreated to their carriage and the Durmstrangers to their ship, moored in the lake. Gershom retrieved quill, ink, and parchment from the writing desk he shared with his three bunkmates, scribbled his name, and marched resolutely back to the castle.

A small group of students from all three schools had gathered in the entrance hall, socializing and debating who among them would make the best champion. The blonde Sleythering girl had just dropped her parchment in the fire to the cheers of her classmates. She winked when she saw Gershom approach.

"I hope it's Lavinia," a younger boy whispered to his friend.

"I still prefer a Rafne-claue," the other boy said in a thick Highland brogue, "but even a Sleytherin' would be better than _that_." He jabbed his thumb at the dark-haired boy who had just come bounding down the marble staircase. He approached the Goblet of Fire, took a breath, and tossed in his name to the cheers of most of those present.

Behind him Gershom heard a rustle and the clump of heavy boots. He turned to see a tall, square-jawed Durmstranger brushing past him. Three or for other Durmstrang students followed him like an entourage. He dropped his parchment into the fire. His friends patted him on the back with shouts of "Huzzah" and "Well done, Rudiger!" Then each friend in turn also offered up his own name to the fire.

"George? Is that you?" It was the Sleythering girl.

"Th-that's right," Gershom stammered. "Uh, Lavinia, right?"

"You remembered," she beamed. "We sat together in Herbology."

"Oh, yeah…" Gershom stalled. Now he _did_ remember. He had always thought the girl was a bit snobbish, but he figured that's what you get when your father is on the Wizards' Council.

"So," he fumbled for something to say. "The Triwizard Tournament, eh?"

"It's going to be a wonderful year, isn't it?" she said.

_Well, if you don't count the war and the fact that my parents are probably fending off English marauders even as we speak. Sure. Couldn't be better._

"I…uh…ought to get back to the carriage. It's been a long day, you know."

"Of course. I just…wanted to say hello…and…I'm sorry you had to leave Hoggewartes. That was really unfair, what the king did. Muggles!" she sighed derisively.

"You know my father is a Muggle, right?"

Lavinia blanched, but only for half a second.

"As I said, I'd best be going. Good night, Lavinia."

As Gershom threaded through the crowd toward the door, a younger boy approached the fire. He was short, sturdily built, and certainly no older than fourteen. Half-trembling, he lifted his parchment to the flames.

"_Cymru_," he whispered.

* * *

><p>• The English army left to invade France on 9 October, 1294. They had intended to leave a month earlier, but were delayed because of a Welsh revolt in September.<p>

• Medieval Jewish males generally had two names, a _kinnui_ or vernacular name in the language of the land in which they lived and a _shem ha-qodesh_ or Hebrew name.

• The Edict of Expulsion of Jews was enacted in England in 1290.

• _Goddams_ (or _godons_) was French slang for the English, especially the English infantry, during the Hundred Years' War (1337–1453). Although anachronistic in this setting, it seemed too good a word not to use. :-)

• I discuss the etymology and original forms of the names of the Hogwarts founders in "What's in a Name?" Here, the names appear in their hypothetical Middle English forms.

• _Cymru_ is the indigenous name of the country called Wales in English.


	4. Champions

The three heads gathered around the Goblet of Fire. The Great Hall was utterly quiet but for the sound of the crackling flames.

Everyone held their breath as the Goblet spit a charred bit of parchment up into the dimly lit hall. Headmistress Custance snatched it out of the air while it was still smoking. She gazed at the name that was written on it and announced, "The Bels-bastons champion is…Georges de Paris!"

Rudiger eyed the smallish, curly-haired young man being congratulated by his schoolmates at the other table. The Bels-bastons champion arose, urged on by everyone around him, and marched toward his swarthy headmaster at the front of the hall. Ydevert gave him a warm embrace, then led him off to a side room.

"Even some of you Hoggewarters seem pleased," Rudiger whispered to the Gryphon-d'Or on his right, a Welsh lad he remembered meeting the night before.

"They say he used to attend here," the other boy said. And it was true: several older Rafne-claues grinned in admiration as the newly-minted Bels-bastons champion left the room. "That was before I started, though. He had to leave when King Edward banished the Jews."

Rudiger leaned back, trying to remember anything he could about Jewish magical traditions from Highmaster van Durmstrang's History of Magic lectures. His concentration was broken, however, as a second name jetted upwards from the Goblet of Fire.

Headmistress Custance held it at an angle, apparently trying to decipher the writing where smoke had smudged the parchment. At last she called, "The Hoggewartes champion is Orontes de Peverelle!"

The Gryphon-d'Or table exploded in exultation. They pounded their fists against the table and shouted like savages as a grinning, dark-haired boy sprang from his seat and sauntered forward. At the front of the hall, an ancient wizard, no doubt the Gryphon-d'Or's Head of House, ushered him out the same way the Jewish wizard from Paris had gone.

Rudiger noticed the slightest inkling of a indigestion pass across Krasa Baikisheva's face. She had instructed them to sit with the Gryphons-d'Or and try to ingratiate themselves. "Of all the Houses, they are the most easily provoked," she had told them. "We can use that." Now that the Hoggewartes champion turned out to be a Gryphon-d'Or, it was unlikely the Durmstrang students would be quite as welcome at their table.

"If you have to move to another table," Krasa had told them, "don't waste your time with the Hofel-papes—you're not likely to get a rise out of them unless you shower them with curses. If you end up with the Rafne-claues, feed their sense of intellectual superiority. Sleytherings are at least sensible on matters of blood purity. Exploit that trait however you can. Perhaps suggest they would be happier at Durmstrang, or point out in front of them the flaws of any Muggle-borns you encounter."

There was only one champion yet to be named. Rudiger sipped his mead and glanced at the schoolmate to his left. In German he asked, "What do you think, Balthasar?"

"It's bound to be one of us," Balthasar whispered. He was on the edge of his seat with anticipation. "Unless it's Yaroslav…or Liudmila…but it's bound to be one of us…."

"I envy your certainty," Rudiger scoffed.

At last the final name popped out of the Goblet of Fire. "And the Durmstrang champion," Headmistress Custance announced, "is Rudiger van Mecklenburg!"

It took a second for reality to set in. The room seemed to tilt. Rudiger's face went red as he sucked in a breath. Beside him, Balthasar pounded his broad back while the entire Durmstrang contingent took to their feet.

"Rudiger! Rudiger! Rudiger!" they chanted.

Slowly, Rudiger rose to his feet and stumbled numbly forward. Deputy Highmistress Krasa met him at the front of the room. She did not smile, but something in her eyes communicated that she was pleased with the Goblet's decision.

She took his arm and escorted him into the side room where the two other champions waited. A minute later, Headmistress Custance followed along with two wizards Rudiger remembered from the Welcoming Feast the night before.

"Congratulations to you all," she said. "As you know, the heads of your three schools will serve as judges for the Triwizard Tournament—or, in the case of Durmstrang, it will be Deputy Highmistress Krasa. And do communicate to Herr van Durmstrang that we hope he quickly recovers from his sudden illness."

"Of course, Headmistress."

Headmistress Custance gestured to the two men standing behind her. "And, of course, the remainder of the judges' panel will consist of Roger of St. Catchpole, representing the English Wizards' Council…" He bowed politely. "…and Aengus mac Mhaolain, representing the Scottish Wizards' Council."

"My pleasure," he said. His bow was a bit more officious that that of the other wizard.

"Councilwizard Aengus," Custance said, "would you please do the honor of announcing the first task?"

"Aye," he said. "The first task is a test o' skill. It will take place beginning at noon tomorrow."

Rudiger's eyes went wide.

"Tomorrow!" the Bels-bastons champion gasped.

"Indeed, lad. Tomorrow is a cross-quarter day: the best time for magic. We'll have the Weighin' o' the Wands ceremony in the Great Hall at noon, and then proceed immediately outside for the first task. Are there any questions?"

"Please sir," the Hoggewartes champion raised his voice. "You say the first task is a test of skill?"

"Aye."

"Well, I was…I mean…could you perhaps be a bit more specific?"

Rudiger sized up the Gryphon-d'Or boy, guessing he was the youngest of the three champions—though by no more than a year or so.

Aengus mac Mhaolain paused, apparently making his own assessment of Orontes de Peverelle. "I think not," he finally said.

* * *

><p>Rudiger slept restlessly that night. Although he didn't say anything at the time, he was also taken aback by the announcement that the first task was to take place the very next day. He stared at the ceiling for at least an hour, wondering how his skill might be tested. The Highmaster had told them the tasks would be challenging—even dangerous. He refused to say more.<p>

The next morning, Rudiger and his schoolmates broke their fast at the Gryphon-d'Or table. Somehow the Gryphons-d'Or didn't seem quite as hospitable as they had the night before, but none said anything about the Durmstrang students joining them. Rudiger nodded cordially to his hosts, and even received an admiring salute from the young Welsh boy who sat next to him last night and the night before.

The rest of the morning was spent in lessons, for Deputy Highmistress Krasa insisted her students make the most of their time at Hoggewartes. She set half her charges to copying a chapter on Magical Theory while she personally led Rudiger and the rest on a stroll around the lake, ostensibly to study whatever magical flora and fauna they might encounter.

Instead, however, they stopped near a deer path halfway around the lake and trudged into the woods. At the first suitable clearing, Krasa Baikisheva announced a change of plans. Rather than studying magical plants and animals, she paired them off to practice dueling. After about twenty minutes, she paired Rudiger against two opponents at once. "You're a Triwizard Champion," she said, arching an eyebrow. "You must rise to the challenge."

Rudiger held his own fairly well and only needed a few cursory healing charms after his workout. He had little appetite by lunchtime, but managed to eat a bit of bread and cheese before the five Triwizard judges ceremoniously processed to the front of the Great Hall, a wizened old man following close behind. Most of the Hoggewartes students seemed to recognize him even before he was introduced as Vergilius d'Ollivandre, Master Wandmaker.

Roger of St. Catchpole called for the three champions to approach for the Weighing of the Wands. Rudiger was the first to present his wand for inspection.

"Hmm," the Wandmaker said. "Seventeen and three quarters inches. Hawthorn and…" (he gave the wand a sniff) "…dragon's heartstring, I believe?"

"_Ja_," Rudiger said. "I mean, yes, sir."

Vergilius d'Ollivandre pointed Rudiger's wand at a golden goblet at the faculty table behind him. "_Accio calicem_," he intoned, and the goblet flew into his outstretched hand.

He then turned to the Hoggewartes champion. "Ah," he said approvingly. "This is one of mine. Birch and phoenix feather, fourteen and a half inches. Much like your own birch wand, Headmistress," he commented to Custance Brekebac, "but a wee bit shorter, if I recall."

"Indeed, Vergilius." The Headmistress had drawn her own thick birch wand, which looked to Rudiger more like a club than a magical tool.

The Wandmaker tapped the goblet and said, "_Imago snidgeti_." The goblet glowed in his hands, collapsing into a ball about the size of a walnut. On closer examination, Rudiger realized it wasn't a ball at all, but a tiny golden statue of a bird.

"And you, sir," he received the Bels-bastons champion's wand while returning that of the Hoggewarter.

"Another one of mine," he said. "I remember this one well—though I must admit I had my doubts about the amphisbaena skin core. It hasn't given you any trouble, has it?"

"No, sir," the Bels-bastons champion said. "It works fine."

"Glad to hear it, glad to hear it. So, let's see: amphisbaena skin, ash, sixteen inches. And I think…yes. _Tendo vigorem_." A flick of the wand and the golden bird sprang instantly to life. Its wings beat as fast as a hummingbird's, and it immediately took flight and buzzed around the room.

"All three champions' wands are in perfect working order, Headmistress," he nodded to Custance. "Nothing out of the ordinary. You may proceed."

"Well then," she said, a wry smile spreading across her face, "let's begin, shall we?"

The Headmistress deferred to the two Wizards' Council judges, who led the champions from the Great Hall, through the entrance hall, and out onto the sprawling front lawn.

* * *

><p>• In England, inherited surnames became more common in the thirteenth-fourteenth centuries, mainly among the aristocracy. Since "the Three Brothers" are all known by the same surname, Peverell(e) must have become an inherited family name by their era, which could have scarcely been much earlier than circa 1250 or so.<p>

• I suspect that wands have gotten shorter over the centuries. The Elder Wand was 15" long, while almost all the 20th-century wands in the novels are 12" or shorter. Historical depictions of wands as well as what is known of the comparable tools of magical/spiritual specialists in traditional cultures suggest that lengths of 20" or even more would not have been unheard of in ancient and medieval times.


	5. Allies and Stratagems

A colorful pavilion had been set up beyond the Quidditch pitch, between the lake and the Hoggewartes boundary wall. Benches lining the wall were already nearly filled with students, townsfolk, and invited guests and dignitaries.

Custance stayed close to Orontes. She tried to offer him a reassuring smile, but smiling wasn't entirely her strong suit. "You'll do fine," she said. "You'll make us proud."

"This way," Aengus mac Mhaolain said, shepherding his charges into the pavilion. Custance and the other judges followed close behind.

The Scottish Councilwizard drew a small leather pouch from his belt.

"The first task," he said, "is a duel. Each of you will get two chances at each of your opponents. Then the two champions with the most wins will face off again. You'll get two points for each win, one for a draw, plus two more to the last one standing. Understand?"

The champions nodded.

"Now, reach in the bag. There are three stones in there: one black, two red. Whoever draws the black stone chooses his opponent for the first match."

The three champions put forth their hands.

Custance took in a breath. She knew Orontes was a very talented duelist. She also knew he would probably need a strong win in the first task to see him through to the end of the Tournament.

The Durmstrang champion drew the black stone.

"Well, then," Aengus mac Mhaolain said, "Rudiger van Mecklenburg will compete in the first match. Whom do you challenge?"

He nodded at the Bels-bastons champion, who was now calling himself Georges de Paris. Custance remembered when he was still George of London.

_Good_, Custance thought to herself. _Give Orontes a chance to see them both in action before he has to face them_.

Everyone processed out the other side of the pavilion and onto the dueling ground. The area was nearly as large as the Quidditch pitch. The small clump of trees near the lake was familiar, but other features had been added. A waist-high stone wall had been constructed, bisecting the dueling ground, with a raised platform ten feet across in the exact center. There were also two enormous boulders, one on each side of the wall.

Aengus led Rudiger and George to the circular platform. Orontes followed Custance and the other judges to the reviewing stand. The Scottish judge spoke briefly to the two combatants, then slipped off the platform.

"On my mark!" he shouted. The champions bowed to each other, wands ready.

"Duel!"

The word had scarcely left the judge's mouth when red flame erupted from George's wand. At the same time, he dove off the platform, rolled once, and fired a second Stunner from a kneeling position. Rudiger dodged the first spell; the second was deflected by his Shield Charm.

Rudiger jabbed his wand toward George. A jet of purple fire struck George's Shield, buckling it. A second jet, this time black, struck George in the chest. He fell backward, breathing heavily, but came up casting a Reductor curse at the section of the platform where Rudiger was still standing. As the rocks blasted away and the Durmstrang champion tipped backward, George transfigured the debris into a flock of crows that bore down on Rudiger, obstructing his vision, breaking his concentration, and inflicting several nasty bites on his face and arms.

George regained his footing, still breathing heavily from Rudiger's black-fire spell. By this time, the Durmstrang champion had vanished the crows and bore into his opponent with another curse, but George was ready: he had already levitated the nearest boulder directly above Rudiger. The German had to break off his curse in order to transfigure the boulder into feathers before it landed on top of him.

The distraction gave George the time he needed, however. He hit Rudiger with three Stunning Spells in rapid succession, and the larger boy fell flat on his back. His wand dropped limply from his hand. The Bels-bastons supporters thundered their delight.

Aengus mac Mhaolain announced a brief break to tend to any wounds and give the Bels-bastons champion an opportunity to recover before the second match. Roger and Aengus set about restoring the dueling ground to its original configuration.

"He's small but he's fast," Custance whispered to Orontes, who nodded thoughtfully.

"And creative," Orontes added.

Aengus called for Orontes to join him and the Bels-bastons champion on the platform. As he did before, the Scottish judge said a few words and slipped off the platform. He called, "On my mark!"

Orontes and George bowed to each other.

"Duel!" Aengus shouted.

Orontes led with a Disarming Charm, which George easily brushed off as he laid into him with an Impediment Jinx.

"What was he thinking?" Custance blurted. "Nobody leads with _Expelliarmus_! It's too predictable!" In the time it took her to curse her student's stupidity, George had dropped him into a quickly-conjured pit of quicksand.

The Bels-bastons supporters took up a chant of "Georges! Georges! Georges!"

Chest-deep in the muck, Orontes lifted his wand and shot half a dozen iron chains from it that wrapped around George's legs and threw him to his back on the platform. Before he pulled himself out, he waved his wand again to encircle the platform in a ring of fire. The chains and the fire gave him the time he needed to levitate himself out of the quicksand and plant his feet on solid ground.

Custance could tell Orontes was mad. She bit her lip. _Keep your cool, Gryphon-d'Or_, she thought.

The two champions circled each other, George at last hopping down from the platform to face Orontes on his level. The Hoggewartes champion uttered an incantation, and something emerged from the tip of his wand: a whiplash seemingly made of fire.

The Bels-bastons champion muttered his spell at not much above a whisper.

"_Yehi mavdil_."

"What was that?" Custance said, eyes wide, heart pounding. She couldn't see that anything had happened.

Orontes slashed at George with his whip. Three feet in front of his opponent, the fiery cord slammed against an invisible surface and almost struck Orontes on the rebound. He tried again with no better result. But this time, as he moved to avoid being struck by his own spell, George flicked his wand, lunged forward, and sent what looked like a bolt of blue lightning straight at him. He fell flat on his back from the force of the hex.

"_Expelliarmus_," George whispered. Orontes's wand leaped out of his hand flew halfway to the reviewing stand.

George planted his foot on Orontes's stomach. "Yield?"

Orontes nodded. The Bels-bastons supporters were by now beside themselves with glee.

Aengus mac Mhaolain slapped his knee and shouted, "Damn, that Jew can fight!"

Custance scowled. She also noticed that the Bels-bastons had stopped chanting "Georges! Georges! Georges!" Now they were chanting " France! France! France!"

The Scottish judge grinned and patted George on the back as he stumbled to his seat.

Custance scanned the crowd and was not entirely surprised to see smiles and nods of approval among the Scottish students from all four Hoggewartes Houses.

Orontes wiped the sweat from his brow and downed a Restorative Potion before his next match. The Headmistress called him over to her.

"What is the matter with you?" she spat. Orontes shuddered beneath her piercing glare. "Get out there and finish off the German so you can rest!"

"Yes, Headmistress."

Fortunately, he was able to do just that, dropping the big Durmstrang champion with the same Binding Charm he had used on George and then pelting him with Stunners.

The fourth match lasted at least fifteen minutes, and it might have gone longer except that Rudiger got lucky and managed to collapse George's strange invisible-wall charm with his black-fire curse. Then he slammed him with a Smothering Charm that brought him to his knees.

"You've had a good rest," Custance said. "Now get him! You can do it!"

"Give him hell, Frenchy!" a Scottish Rafne-claue shouted.

"_International magical cooperation" my eye!_ Custance thought to herself.

She didn't want to watch the fifth match, but, being a judge, she had little choice. The match began slowly. Both combatants were feeling the strain of a long afternoon of dueling. They tested each other with hexes and curses of various sorts, but neither seemed able to gain the advantage.

Krasa Baikisheva had pulled her champion over to the side. The two of them had a tense conversation under a Silencing Charm. Custance read outrage and confusion in the German boy's eyes; fire and determination in those of the Deputy Highmistress. She jabbed at the boy's chest with her finger. Custance tried to read her lips, but she must have been speaking Russian. At last, Rudiger threw up his hands in defeat, slumped his shoulders, and returned to his seat.

All the while, the match between George and Orontes wore on. The Bels-bastons champion seemed to deflect whatever Orontes threw at him, and now, Custance noted with a growing sense of indigestion, nearly every Scot in the stands—including most of the visitors from Hoggesmede—were cheering for the French boy.

"This could go on all day," Krasa Baikisheva groaned.

"Should we call a draw, then?" Roger of St. Catchpole suggested.

"Let 'em fight it out," Aengus mac Mhaolain said.

"No," Custance sighed. "They're both exhausted, and one or the other of them still has two matches to go."

"That's three judges for a draw. Headmaster Ydevert?" The Bels-bastons headmaster sat like a stone for nearly a minute. Finally he nodded.

"As you wish," Aengus said. He rose from his seat to signal a draw. The entire crowd cheered and whooped for their champion as they both lumbered over to the reviewing stand for Restorative Potions and healing charms.

Orontes practically fell into the seat beside Custance.

"Take your rest," she said. "It's Bels-bastons 5, Hoggewartes 3, and Durmstrang 2. The next match decides who will face Bels-bastons in the final round."

Orontes nodded, not quite enthusiastically.

"How do you feel?"

"Terrible."

"How does _he_ feel?"

"About the same, thank God. But he gets to rest now!"

"Do your best," Custance said.

The match began with a Stunner from Rudiger that Orontes easily deflected with a Shield Charm. The two traded hexes for a couple of minutes, neither of them making much headway.

Rudiger eased to one side. He nearly tripped over a bit of rubble someone's deflected Reductor Curse made out of one side of the raised stone platform.

Suddenly, Orontes saw his opportunity. "_Confringo_!" he shouted. The rubble turned into a dozen or more bomblets that exploded all at once, throwing the Durmstrang champion flat on his face. He lost is grip on his wand. It fell a couple of feet away.

"I yield!" he called.

Custance gasped. From the look of him, Orontes had just been hit with a Confundus Charm. He turned warily toward the judges, who all seemed equally in shock. George uttered a mild oath. They had all seen the Durmstrang champion recover from worse setbacks.

Custance glanced at Krasa. Krasa's face betrayed no emotion whatsoever.

"W-well, then," Aengus mac Mhaolain addressed the crowd, who looked as perplexed as the judges and the other contestants. "The score at the end of six matches is Bels-bastons 5, Hoggewartes 5, and Durmstrang 2. Georges de Paris of Bels-bastons and Orontes de Peverelle of Hoggewartes will face each other in the final round.

"What happened?" Custance whispered as Orontes sat down beside her.

"No idea," he sighed. "Got lucky, I reckon."

Custance doubted luck had anything to do with her champion's unexpected victory.

The final match hadn't yet begun, and already the spectators were stomping their feet and chanting for their champion. The chants of "Georges" and "Orontes" were matched almost evenly with chants of "France" and "England." A handful of Scots—both students and Hoggesmeders—had even moved to sit with the Bels-bastons supporters. Three English students rose to their feet, wands drawn, as the Scots muscled past them. If it weren't for the portly monk who interposed himself between them, violence might well have broken out in the stands then and there.

"You've got to finish this quickly," she said. "The crowd is getting restless."

"He's too fast!" Orontes protested.

"You've got to be faster. Do something he's not expecting. End the match before a riot breaks out!"

"Alright," Orontes said. "I…I think I've got an idea. Hand me some more Restorative." He downed the potion and returned to the stone platform. Georges de Paris was already waiting for him.

For the third time, the Hoggewartes and Bels-bastons champions bowed to each other and began to duel. Orontes let loose a blistering volley of Stunners and hexes, backing his opponent off the platform and toward the trees. When George responded with hexes of his own, he dived and rolled for cover behind the huge boulder Rudiger had transfigured into feathers hours before in the first match.

Orontes's Shield Charm withstood the worst George threw at him. He answered with a Fire Ball—a blazing distraction that scorched the whole area between the two combatants—and a Reductor Curse that rained splinters of wood in all directions.

George waved the splinters off with his own Shield. Orontes leaped to the top of the boulder. George lunged with his wand. A jet of purple light sped toward Orontes—but he was no longer there.

At the same time George fired his hex, Orontes turned on the spot and disappeared with a sharp cracking sound.

He reappeared directly behind George just as the purple jet passed harmlessly over the top of the boulder and struck him, grinning, with a simple Slug-vomiting Jinx.

George fell to his knees, green-faced. He signaled to yield.

Custance stood and whooped in spite of herself.

"D-did he just Apparate in the middle of a duel?" Headmaster Ydevert sputtered.

"Indeed he did," Custance exulted.

"_Mon Dieu_, why did I never think of that," he said.

By now the dueling ground had flooded with Orontes's supporters. He was already sitting on their shoulders, numb and shaking, when Aengus officially declared him the winner of the first task.

* * *

><p>• The "Auld Alliance" between France and Scotland is generally dated to the pact of 1295 by which John de Balliol and Philip IV each agreed to support the other in the event of an English attack. Some historians, however, assert that there were early precedents for a Scottish-French alliance such as embassies between William I of Scotland and Louis VII of France (1173) and Alexander II of Scotland's support for the French during the First Barons' War (1215). In short, Scotland and France looked upon England as a common enemy for much of the Middle Ages.<p> 


	6. The Yule Revel

"A dragon?" Headmistress Custance didn't even try to conceal her bewilderment. Roger shifted his weight from his right foot to his left. He cleared his throat, which was suddenly—but quite explicably—dry as dust.

"Yes, Headmistress. A Welsh Green, naturally. Fortunately, there were English wizards within Fflint Castle. They were able to down it before it reached the walls."

"Yes…but…but…a DRAGON?"

"Believe me, the English Wizards' Council is every bit as upset as you are. We thought the Welsh wizards wouldn't dare try anything that would escalate the situation." Roger sighed. "Obviously, we were mistaken. Oh, the Welsh Wizards' Council disavows any connection with the incident, but if they can't control their own dissident factions…"

The headmistress slumped in her chair. "And…the casualties?"

"Reports are still a bit hazy," Roger said. "About seventy-five houses were burned to the ground before the dragon could be killed."

The headmistress cradled her head in her hands. Roger pressed on with his report.

"Memories have been modified, of course. The Muggles believe the English set fire to the town on purpose in order to save the castle—cut off the rebels from shelter and provisions. The ruse worked, too: the Welsh broke off the siege. Fflint remains in English hands."

"And the dragon?"

"The Welsh removed the body under Bedazzlement Charms. I expect Welsh potioneers and wandmakers will be happy."

Custance sat in silence for an unbearable eternity as Roger stood before her.

"A _dragon_…," she whispered.

'H-headmistress," Roger said, "I wonder if you've given consideration to increasing security at Hoggewartes. Malcontents like those Welsh wizards seem to be popping up everywhere. And after the de Peverelle boy's performance in the first task…"

"You fear he exposed a weakness by Apparating within the grounds." It was a statement, not a question. Roger nodded.

"Until now we have always found it sufficient to ward against Apparition only within the castle itself," Custance said.

"If the Welsh wizards continue to involve themselves in nationalistic politics…If the Scots find common cause with the Bels-bastons students…"

"Of course, of course," Custance said. "I'll tell Professor de Scarpin to get to work on the necessary wards and enchantments."

"But subtly," Roger said. "Too much fanfare would work against us, I fear."

"I quite agree." The headmistress rose from her desk. "We need to keep our students from dwelling on what may be happening back home," she said, moving to look out her office window onto the gray late-November afternoon. "Most of them haven't the slightest interest in Muggle politics, but they all care about their families and friends in harm's way. We can't have those sentiments interfering with life here at Hoggewartes."

Roger had nothing to say.

"Roger," she said at last, "I believe it is time to throw a party."

* * *

><p>The Yule Revel took place on Christmas Eve. It began with a two-couple dance. Orontes had asked Margery, a younger witch he knew from his home in Godrices Holwe, to be his escort. They danced with Rudiger van Mecklenburg and a pretty Bels-bastons girl named Elena. Georges de Paris, Lavinia de Malefoy, Headmistress Custance, and Roger of St. Catchpole formed a second foursome. The two other school heads danced together along with Aengus mac Mhaolain and his wife as a third foursome.<p>

Orontes would have preferred to dance with Lavinia. He and the Sleythering girl were both from influential Wizarding families, and the two seemed to have a lot in common despite belonging to different Houses. Truth be told, he wondered whether his father and Lord de Malefoy wouldn't eventually nudge them toward matrimony.

Orontes found himself alone with Lavinia in the Potions classroom one mid-December day, as they were both helping clean up after an unsuccessful lesson on the magical uses of sulfur and mercury. As they rinsed away their spoiled ingredients in the special drain that ran directly from the second-floor classroom into the earth far beneath the castle, Orontes asked Lavinia to accompany him. Alas, she had already consented to be the escort of the Bels-bastons champion.

Margery was a nice enough girl, but Orontes strongly suspected she only agreed to accompany him because he was the Hoggewartes champion. At any rate, most of the dances were carols and line dances, so the revelers had plenty of opportunities to socialize with nearly everyone.

In fact, Orontes discovered, mainly to his annoyance, that most of the girls wanted a turn dancing with one of the three Triwizard champions. Tall, good-looking Rudiger from Durmstrang spent his time at the center of a gaggle of Sleythering girls. George commanded the attention of several Rafne-claues who remembered him from his Hoggeswartes days. For his part, Orontes seemed to have attracted the attention of most of the Gryphon-d'Or and Hofel-pap girls as well as not a few from Durmstrang.

Orontes found himself paired with Avice de Bolestrode during a popular carol. As the music came to a halt, she clutched his arm. "I can't believe she consented to dance with _him_!" she muttered. Following her gaze, Orontes saw that George and Lavinia were laughing together at the far end of the Great Hall.

"He seems all right," Orontes said.

"He's not one of us."

"Well, he used to be. Rafne-claue, wasn't he?"

"That's not what I mean," Avice said.

"What? You don't think anybody should dance with him because he's Jewish?"

Avice glared at Orontes. "I don't think _Lavinia_ should dance with him because he's a half-blood! Are you really that thick?"

"What is it with you Sleytherings and blood purity? It doesn't rub off, you know."

"Honestly, Orontes, sometimes you sound like a ruddy Hofel-puffe."

"It's Hofel-_pap_, Avice, and I don't still don't see why Lavinia can't dance with whomever she wants to." Orontes felt his cheeks warming. He couldn't believe he was taking up for his Triwizard rival so strongly.

"Leave her be," someone interjected. Orontes turned to see Uiliam de Berewick, a seventh-year Rafne-claue Scot. "If the Sleytherin' lass wants to dance with a real man and not a beef-headed Englishman, then what's the harm, eh?"

He said it loud enough to gain the attention of several nearby revelers. The next dance had just commenced, but half a dozen or so students, mainly from Hoggewartes and Bels-bastons, turned to see what the commotion was about.

Orontes let his hand drop to his side, assuring himself his wand was within reach.

"Even a dimwitted Englishman is preferable to a Scottish lout," Avice said.

_What's _that_ supposed to mean?_ Orontes pondered. "Avice, you look thirsty. Shall we go find a drink?"

"Lout, am I?" Uiliam said. A few couples stopped dancing and gravitated toward Uiliam, Avice, and Orontes.

"Listen to her," an unfamiliar feminine voice commented. Orontes turned to see a Bels-bastons girl nodding to her friend. "English girls are such arrogant cows."

"That's right, Gryphon-d'Or," Uiliam chided over the French girl's comment, "hide behind the girl as you make your escape."

"Cows!" Avice gasped.

Orontes clenched his fists but said nothing. All around was a buzz of hushed conversation.

"The Hoggewartes champion afraid of his own schoolmate?" someone said in strangely accented Latin. Orontes guessed it must have been someone from Durmstrang. His ears flushed as red as the trim on his dress robes.

"How dare you call me a cow?" Avice lunged toward the two Bels-bastons girls. A second later, two tussling boys slammed into Orontes's back, sending him flying at Uiliam de Berewick. The next thing he knew, half the Great Hall was consumed by a chaotic, angry mob. The Scots, the Welsh, and the French all ganged up on the English, who rallied to a position near the drinks table. Those not involved in the melee had by now realized something was wrong. The music lurched to an inelegant halt as all eyes turned to the center of the confusion, where Orontes de Peverelle and Avice de Bolestrode stood back to back, wands drawn, poised to defend their schoolmates.

"Down with the English!" shouted a third-year Welsh student: a short, stocky Gryphon-d'Or. Long live Prince Madog!"

"_Impedimenta_!" called an older man's voice. Professor de Scarpin, the venerable Charms teacher, bowled everyone over with a single spell.

"Enough!" Custance bellowed. It was suddenly quiet but for the headmistress's heavy breathing. Her eyes blazed with unholy fire as she glared across the room from one side to the next.

"The revel is over," she said. "Return to your dormitories."

There was another uncomfortable silence.

"Now."

* * *

><p>Roger collapsed into his bed at the Three Broomsticks with a groan. The Yule Revel had been a complete disaster. If it hadn't been for Professor de Scarpin's Impediment Jinx, there might well have been serious injuries.<p>

He did not relish explaining what had just happened to the Wizards' Council. He barely understood it, himself. It was quickly dawning on him, however, that it had been a mistake to proceed with the Triwizard Tournament. The situation was too volatile, no matter how much gold the three schools stood to lose.

The second task—a test of determination—was scheduled for Candlemas Day. That gave Headmistress Custance over a month to get her Hoggewartes students in line.

The Welsh Wizards' Council still chose not to intervene in Muggle affairs, even with King Edward marching into north Wales at the head of an army of pacification. That was a good sign—maybe the only good sign in weeks. He was starting to believe the Welsh wizards were sincere about holding their dissident factions in check.

The last Roger heard, Longshanks was on his way to Conwy Castle. A successful English campaign might bring the rebels to their senses.

"Maybe the Welsh will sue for peace," Roger sighed. "Maybe the Scots will withdraw their support for France."

Roger turned over onto his back.

"Maybe I'll sprout wings and fly to the moon."

* * *

><p>• In autumn 1294 William de Ralegh set fire to the town of Fflint in northwest Wales in order to defend the English position against Welsh partisans of Madog ap Llewellyn.<p>

• There were three basic types of medieval dances: two-couple dances, circle dances (or "carols"), and line or progressive dances. Two-couple dances consisted of four people who take steps very similar to each other and remaining in the same approximate area. Such dances allowed two people to meet, interact, and even flirt in a controlled setting.

• Drains such as the one in the Potions classroom were common in English churches from the thirteenth century on as vessels to dispose of water that has been used sacramentally by returning it directly to the earth. I suspect that eventually, sometime before the twentieth century, the second-floor Potions classroom was converted into a girl's bathroom.

• _Pap_ is a holdover from Old Norse _papi_, "hermit," as I conjectured in "What's in a Name?" _Puffe_ is Middle English for "blast of air, puff of wind, etc." I expect later Hufflepuffs embraced Avice's insult as a badge of honor.

• Candlemas is the 2nd of February, commemorating the presentation of Jesus in the Temple forty days after Christmas. It is also known as Saint Brigid's Day and Imbolc.


	7. Relentless

Candlemas promised to be as cold and gray as steel, but Rudiger didn't mind. In fact, he appreciated the cold. He figured he was far more used to it than either of his opponents, and he needed whatever advantage he could get.

He leaned against the railing on the deck of the Durmstrang _koch_. Soon the sun would rise, and the second task would get underway.

"You must strive to do your best," Krasa Baikisheva said. The Durmstrang champion merely grunted.

"Are you still bitter?" she accused. "Do you think you are the only one who as made a sacrifice for the greater good? For over a month I've pretended an interest in that greasy French fop. All I've required of you was to let the Englishman and the Jew face each other in the final round of the first task. And you can't deny it had precisely the effect I had hoped."

Rudiger shrugged. "Of course, Deputy Highmistress. Bels-bastons and Hoggewartes have been on the brink of open violence for months."

"But now we must push them to even greater frustration. For that, you must win the second task—thoroughly and unmercifully. You must dominate them. You must embarrass them."

Rudiger set his bright, blue eyes on the Quidditch pitch in the distance. He ran his fingers along the length of his wand, tracing the carvings along its grip.

"You seem concerned, Deputy Highmistress. You're not afraid they're actually listening to that fat friar who preaches to them every Sunday, are you?"

"Don't underestimate him," she said. "It's obvious people like him. He looks past their faults and sees value in them—which is more than most of them deserve. Still, that attitude wins him the right to be heard."

The Durmstrang champion remembered back to that very Sunday, when it was announced that the Welsh rebels had suffered a crushing defeat at Conwy Castle. He wouldn't have thought anyone could have pacified the congregation at Hoggesmede Chapel, but somehow that unassuming monk managed to do it.

"It's not just the friar," Rudiger said. "Now that the Durmstrang students have moved to the Sleythering table, we hear what their Head of House tells them."

Krasa Baikisheva nodded. "Muggle affairs are beneath them; their first loyalty is to their own kind. They've practically stolen a page from Highmaster van Durmstrang's own spellbook."

"And it's working. You're not likely to rile the Sleytherings with appeals to nationalistic chauvinism."

"Indeed," Krasa said. The dawn was now about to break. "We should be going." The teacher and her student marched downt he gangplank and onto the shore. The ice-covered grass crunched beneath their boots.

"Keep your wits about you," the deputy highmistress said. "You must be patient. You must be aware of your surroundings at all times. And remember: dominate!"

"With pleasure, Deputy Highmistress."

Krasa led Rudiger to the Quidditch pitch, around the inside edge of it, and to a location marked on the grass with an X.

The three champions faced off on the Quidditch pitch, forming the three points of an imaginary equilateral triangle. Rudiger stood nearest the reviewing stand. Orontes was ahead and to his right, Georges ahead and to his left. The two other champions shivered in the cold. Georges pulled his cloak tight.

At the center of the pitch, atop a twenty-foot pole, flag fluttered in the icy wind. Headmistress Custance rose from her seat on the judges' bench, set her wand to her throat, and magically amplified her voice.

"For the second task, the champions are required to retrieve the flag at the center of the Quidditch pitch," she said. "Once a champion has the flag, he must successfully take it to one of the designated areas underneath the goal hoops at either end of the pitch." She gestured to two large circles ringed with fire. "At that point, it will be the other two champions' task to capture the flag from him. If the champion delivers the flag to a safe area, he will be awarded fifteen points. If, however, he is stopped, the two other champions will be awarded ten points each."

Rudiger glanced at the flag, the two rings of fire, and his two opponents.

"The champions are forbidden to cast any spell directly upon either the flag or their competitors," Custance continued. "No Summoning Charms, no Stunning Spells or the like. Champions, are you ready?"

Rudiger, Orontes, and Georges nodded. Rudiger tightened his grip on his wand.

"On my mark!"

The champions all bowed to each other.

"Begin!"

Rudiger was sure there was something Custance wasn't telling them. He discovered what it was when Orontes stopped in his tracks a second after signal was given to begin. The Hoggewartes champion tentatively stretched forth his hand to see what he had hit. Observing what had happened, both Rudiger and Georges advanced slowly toward the center of the pitch, hand outstretched, until they, too, encountered an invisible wall.

It felt like an ordinary stone wall, but it was completely invisible. Rudiger had never seen a Disillusionment Charm so perfectly performed. Lifting his wand, he shot a shower of yellow sparks at it. They bounced harmlessly against the wall, except for an area just to his left, where they flew freely in the breeze. Rudiger extended his hand and felt his way toward the opening.

He fired more sparks. This time, after spraying an arc in front of him, he discovered he could go either right or left, but there was another invisible wall directly ahead.

"A maze," he whispered to himself.

_All right; this is going to take some thought._

Rudiger attempted to undo the Charm on the stones that bounded the entrance to the maze, but without success. Neither could he make them visible with a Color-Changing Charm—although he wondered if he had indeed changed the colors of the stones, but removing the Disillusionment his spell had no effect.

He contemplated simply breaking through the walls with Reductor Curses, but dismissed the idea. He might end up trudging through an invisible stone obstacle course. If it did clear a path, it would give his opponents a way out of the maze as well. There's no way he could outrun both of them to get the flag to the goal circle.

Finally, he tried a Freezing Charm. He nodded in satisfaction at the results: a frosty glaze of ice formed over the sides of the wall. Another application and the walls took on a gray translucence. He entered the maze, marking his path by creating a thick stripe of frost. Given the freezing temperatures, he was sure his mark would remain for at least a couple of hours.

Rudiger proceeded to the right. He kept his eyes on his competitors to gauge their progress. Orontes had taken to burning a path to follow in the yellowed grass. Georges seemed to be dropping conjured stones on the ground every few feet—to what end, Rudger could not fathom.

The three slowly made their way deeper into the maze. Despite the appearance of being in an open field, there was something claustrophobic about being in the maze. The passageways were so narrow two people could have barely walked abreast, and the walls were at least ten feet high.

Suddenly there was a flash of brilliant light. Fifty feet away, Orontes had hit the ground after a burst of fire erupted all around him.

"Traps!" a spectator called. "They'll have to be careful; I bet that wasn't the only one."

And sure enough, a minute later Rudiger entered a stretch of passageway that immediately began to fill with a bluish-white gas. He conjured a wind to blow it up into the air and hurried through as quickly as he could. But he still caught a whiff of the foul-smelling mist. The next thing he knew, he was on his knees, gasping for breath.

He felt his face. Something hard and stony was slowly crystallizing around his mouth and nose. It was becoming difficult to breathe. He pointed his wand at his face and undid the curse. As he rose again to his feet, he spied Georges in the distance trying to cope with what must have been a ruthless volley of Stinging Hexes.

Rudiger hurried ahead, feeling more claustrophobic—and more frantic—with each passing moment. It was hard to tell how his progress measured up against the other champions. Large portions of the maze were now marked by either his ice or Orontes's scorched ground. He couldn't see any of Georges's stones, and continued to wonder what good they were supposed to do.

At one point Rudiger passed within a few feet of Georges. They could see each other clearly, but there was an invisible wall between them with Rudiger's icy blaze on one side and Georges's trail of stones on the ground beyond.

The passages seemed to get narrower the closer he got to the center. As he turned another corner, he began to hear a dull humming in his ears. He dropped to a crouch, wand aimed forward. No threat materialized.

Rudiger exhaled.

He pressed on, anxiety growing. He wondered if some sort of subtle Fear Charm had been applied to the maze, or if it was just nerves. He struggled against becoming disoriented. Every now and then he stopped to look back and retrace his path with his finger. His icy marks were still visible, he was pleased to see.

The sun was still low in the sky, but he felt as if he had been in the maze for hours. His brain told him that was impossible. His heart was beating too fast to listen.

He had to reach the center first. He had to capture the flag and take it to the goal circle in order to take the lead in the tournament. He cursed to himself for his deputy highmistress's demand that he throw his match against the Hoggewartes champion in the first task. He could have defeated Georges in the final round, he was sure of it—and then he would be protecting his lead, not struggling to come from behind.

He turned another corner. He couldn't have been more than ten feet away from the pole. He stalked forward, inch by inch.

An iron cage sprung out of the ground, encircling him on every side.

"Ha!" he heard the Hoggewartes champion exult. In the split second before the wall rose above eye level, he saw Orontes dash toward the flag pole from the other direction. Rudiger was enclosed in a man-sized wrought-iron cylinder. Through the bars, he saw the Hoggewarter's Severing Charm release the flag from its pole. He cursed under his breath, shielded his face with his cloak, and tore through his tiny prison with a Reductor Curse.

Rudiger conjured a wall of stone, blocking Orontes's escape. The Hoggewartes champion turned and engulfed the inner circle of the maze in a blaze of multicolored lights. Blinded, Rudiger tried to transfigure the frozen ground into muck.

He heard Georges shout an incantation. When at last he could see again, he found that the Bels-bastons champion had caused all the stones he had dropped along his path to blaze with orange light. He was sprinting through the maze, retracing his steps toward the entrance.

Orontes had pulled himself free from the viscous muck in which he had been stuck. He made his way out of the maze's center through another opening.

Rudiger and Georges were now allies. One of them had to stop Orontes, or the Hoggewartes champion would have a lead so great it would be all but impossible to catch up with him. Yet he was forbidden by the rules of the task to take him down with even the simplest hex.

He stalked after his opponent. Georges would surely find a way to capture the flag if Orontes made it out of the maze. Rudiger was determined to stop the Hoggewartes champion before then. He cast another Freezing Charm, this time aiming for the ground beneath Orontes's feet. The Englishman quickly lost his footing and slid ten feet before bouncing into an invisible wall. Flat on his belly, he fired a jet of silver light that ripped an ugly gash in the ground. Clumps of mud, ice, and grass pelted Rudiger, holding him at bay.

Orontes was following his own trail of scorched grass back the way he had come. This was clearly the best way out, but it also meant Rudiger could predict which direction he would turn at every juncture.

"_Razorjo_!" he shouted. He heard the sound of shattering stone and even smelled the rising dust, but saw nothing. He leaped through the breach his Reductor Curse had created, then turned immediately to his left. He was now in front of Orontes, not behind him.

It didn't take long for Orontes to figure out what had happened, however. He doubled back, finding a spot where Georges' path of glowing stones crossed his own path of scorched grass. He followed the Bels-bastons champion's path, but Rudiger was gaining on him.

Georges hung close to the entrance to the maze. If Orontes continued, the Bels-bastons and Durmstrang champions would soon have him surrounded.

The Hoggewartes champion switched over to the icy trail Rudiger had blazed. Outside the maze, Georges circled around to the Durmstrang starting point. Orontes saw this and hesitated.

"We've got you, Englishman!" Rudiger bellowed. "Escape the maze and face the Frenchman, or turn and face me!"

Orontes breathed heavily, then conjured a wall of ice between himself and the Durmstrang champion. Rudiger quickly demolished it with a Fire Charm, but Orontes was once again on the run.

"Aaagh!"

He ran straight into Georges's Stinging-Hex passage. As he stumbled through on the other side, Rudiger cast a Shield Charm and stomped through unimpeded. Orontes must have been nearly blinded by the stings and had no time to perform the counter-hex, but still he pressed on.

Rudiger grabbed him by the collar of his cloak, threw him to the ground, and retrieved the flag from inside his robes.

He held it up for all to see. The spectators leaped to their feet.

Custance Brekebac nodded to the ancient wizard who had first escorted Orontes away when the Goblet of Fire had named him the Hoggewartes champion.

"Professor de Scarpin?"

The wizard waved his wand in a complicated series of patters, all the while muttering half a dozen incantations in quick succession. The walls of the maze became suddenly visible, then melted away into the earth.

Georges walked over to offer Rudiger his hand. The Durmstrang champion started, then extended his own.

Headmistress Custance once more magically amplified her voice.

"Congratulations to the Durmstrang and Bels-bastons champions. Each will be awarded ten points, making the overall score Bels-bastons 15, Durmstrang 12, and Hoggewartes 9." Everyone cheered. Custance deferred to Roger of St. Catchpole, who similarly amplified his voice before addressing the champions.

"You will now have three months to prepare for the third and final task," he said. "This task will take place at sundown on the first of May. I urge the three of you to prepare wisely, for this will be a test of resourcefulness."

The three looked up into his beady eyes.

"Your ability to plan and to think creatively will be severely challenged," he said, "for the third task is to be completed without the use of a wand."

Rudiger mouthed the words after him, not entirely sure he believed what he had heard.

* * *

><p>• A <em>koch<em> was a one- or two-masted sailing ship with a flat, rounded bottom, designed mainly for Arctic voyages. At a later time, they were used extensively for the exploration of Russia's Siberian rivers.

• Agnellus of Pisa brought the first Franciscan Friars to England in 1224. By the late thirteenth century, there were probably 1,200–1,500 Franciscans in England. Friars were not quite the same as monks. Rather than living in a cloistered community, they worked among laypeople and were supported by donations or other charitable support.

• The English victory at Conwy took place on 22 January 1295. It dealt the Welsh one of the bloodiest defeats in their intermittent struggle for independence.


	8. Friends and Foes

The first week of February, Orontes spent most of his spare time studying astronomical charts. Try as he might, he couldn't find any astrological omens for the first of May that gave him any hints about the nature of the third task or how he might fare in it. The first of May was one day past the full moon, but that was as far as he could get. His only assurance was that the other two champions didn't seem to have any information he lacked.

He moved on, then, to working out exactly what he would bring with him to the third task. If the first two tasks were any indication, several doses of Healing Potion would definitely be in order. After that, he drew a blank. He pondered carrying a supply of dragon's blood—surely one of its seven known uses would come in handy—but quickly dismissed the idea as impractical. A collection of well-chosen Rune Charms, however, would likely come in handy.

After classes a couple of weeks later, he imposed upon Professor Ecgfrith Wiseheued to let him have some time in the Potions classroom to contemplate his options on the potion-making front. The Head of Rafne-claue House was quite hospitable and welcomed the Hoggewartes champion to take his time.

Orontes always thought more clearly when his body was moving; he paced along the shelves and cabinets of ingredients both rare and commonplace, hoping for some glimmer of inspiration. The judges had explained that each champion would be permitted to bring whatever magical items they liked to the third task—with the exception of their wands. The only restrictions were that the champions had to create these items themselves, and that everything had to fit inside a non-enchanted traveler's satchel.

_Shrinking Solution?_ Orontes pondered, rocking on his heels. _Freezing Powder? Wiggenweld Potion? _

He failed to reach any firm conclusions, but promised himself he would come back next week and try to figure it out. As he approached the door, Georges de Paris entered the classroom.

"Oh!" the Bels-bastons champion said. "Sorry. I didn't know anyone else would be here. Professor Ecgfrith told me I could use his classroom tonight."

"I'm just leaving," Orontes said. "Come on in."

"Thanks."

Orontes turned to go, then hesitated.

"That was a nice bit of magic the other day. Those glowing stones? Really impressive."

The Bels-bastons champion shrugged. "Just a Geminio Charm to duplicate them and a Protean Charm to make them glow."

Georges had begun pulling parchment, quill, and ink from his satchel. A leaf of parchment fell off the workbench he had claimed and skidded toward Orontes's feet. The Hoggewartes champion caught a brief glimpse of it before Georges hurriedly snatched it up. It seemed to be some sort of geometric design, with calculations scrawled all around the edges in a tiny, cramped hand. He realized, with a sudden lump in his throat, that he had no idea what the Bels-bastons champion had drawn.

"Was that some kind of rune?" he asked, maybe a bit more frantically than he would have liked.

"It's a _segulah_," Georges explained, slipping the parchment deep within his satchel. "Jewish magic. It's like a rune, but you also need a little Arithmancy to make one properly."

Orontes silently cursed himself for never having studied Arithmancy. At the same time, he remembered something he had always heard about Jewish magical signs.

"B-but isn't that Dark magic?" he said, more shocked than accusatory. Georges gave him an evil glare.

"I-I mean…I've always heard those kinds of signs are used to treat with Dark spirits." Orontes realized how stupid and prejudiced he sounded the moment the words left his mouth. He felt his cheeks turning red.

"I'll bet you believe I drink the blood of Christian babies for Passover, too," Georges muttered.

"No! I…I'm sorry. That was a stupid thing to say. Please forgive me."

Georges turned his back on Orontes and hunched over his workbench, jotting notes on a different leaf of parchment.

"Seriously," Orontes said. "I didn't mean any harm."

"You never do."

"Well…I suppose I'd better—"

"Do you really think the Durmstranger _won't_ use Dark magic in the third task?" The Bels-bastons champion's eyes were glued to his work as he spoke.

"Not really," Orontes whispered. And having nothing else to say, he left.

The following Monday, Orontes joined the other Gryphon-d'Or boys—along with a handful of Sleytherings, Hofel-paps, and Rafne-claues—for fencing practice. Professor de Scarpin was insistent that Gryphon-d'Or men know how to handle a sword, as did the fabled founder of their House. Regular fencing lessons had been a part of Orontes's education since he first came to Hoggewartes six years ago. With Blunting Charms duly cast, students took turns sparring with each other in a broad circle drawn on a flat stretch of ground beside the lake, opposite the magic dueling ground used for the first Triwizard task.

The Hoggewartes champion was far from the best swordfighter in his class, but he usually managed to hold his own. The lessons were largely under the guidance of a couple of seventh-year Gryphons-d'Or, but Professor de Scarpin was actively involved. Despite his advanced age, the Head of Gryphon-d'Or House entered the circle after nearly every match to demonstrate some technique his students had executed poorly.

It was nearly suppertime, and Professor de Scarpin had opened the lesson for challenges. A third-year Welsh student stepped into the circle and called, "Orontes de Peverelle!"

Some of the older students tittered, but it was clear from the look on his face that the short, stocky third-year was quite serious about his challenge. He stood at attention in the center of the circle, waiting for Orontes to respond.

"Cadwgan," Professor de Scarpin said, "are you sure you're ready to face a sixth-year?"

"Ready and willing, Professor. Let the scurvy braggart face my steel!"

"Very well," he sighed.

Orontes donned his helmet, strapped on his buckler, drew his sword, and entered the circle, as much bemused as anything. Students in his year thought of Cadwgan as a bit of a joke—full of bluster, but not terribly skilled when it came to magic. They said his father was some sort of lesser noble in Wales. He seemed to enjoy picking fights with his English schoolmates, but no one was quite sure he meant anything by it.

At Professor de Scarpin's signal, the two began to circle each other. Orontes's advantage of height and reach was almost embarrassing, but Cadwgan seemed unfazed. He charged at Orontes with a blood-curdling war whoop, driving the Hoggewartes champion backward around the circle. The Welsh boy pounded away at Orontes's buckler, but failed to penetrate his opponent's defenses.

Orontes rolled out of the way, regained his ground, and took the offensive. Swords and bucklers clanged against each other again, but this time, Orontes having at last awoken to the ferocity of his opponent's attacks, the fight was more evenly matched. The two continued to hack at each other for another four or five minutes. Gradually, skill began to win over passion. Orontes struck a glancing blow to Cadwgan's thigh. The Welsh boy refused to give up. A few heartbeats later the two combatants' swords and bucklers got tangled up, and both of them ended up on the ground, disarmed.

"Yield?" Orontes said, grasping for his sword.

"Never!"

The two crashed into each other once more. Cadwgan was a fair swordfighter, Orontes realized, and not likely to relent.

_I hate this_, he thought. _Half the Welsh students are already cheering for Bels-bastons—and more than half of the Scots_. The Welsh boy was outmatched. Apparently, only he was unaware of this fact.

Orontes sighed.

Cadwgan lunged. Orontes heaved his buckler upward, deflecting the blow. He kept his arm elevated, hoping he wasn't being overly obvious. The Welsh boy saw his chance, whipped his sword over his head, and brought it down against Orontes's exposed side for a winning strike.

"The match goes to Cadwgan!" Professor de Scarpin said, both shocked and impressed. Several audible gasps erupted from among the onlookers. "Well done, young man. Well done!"

The Welsh boy beamed as he offered Orontes his hand and pulled him to his feet. "You fight well, Englishman, but you're no match for Cadwgan!"

"It's an honor to be in the same house as a fighter such as yourself," Orontes offered. "I am in your debt." Cadwgan smiled broadly and practically bounded up the path toward the castle.

Orontes doffed his helmet and wiped the sweat from his face as his schoolmates filed away toward the Great Hall for supper.

"And well done to you as well, Orontes," Professor de Scarpin said under his breath. "I do believe I saw a true Gryphon-d'Or on the field of honor today."

* * *

><p>Highmaster van Durmstrang arrived late one night at Hoggewartes shortly after Easter. At breakfast the next morning he took his seat at the faculty table between Headmistress Custance and Krasa Baikisheva.<p>

Rudiger continued to wonder about the nature of the third task, but no form of Divination he could think of divulged any useful information. He studied the Hoggewartes and Bels-bastons champions, however, for any hint that they were in a better position than he was. Thankfully, it didn't appear that they were.

A tawny owl landed in front of Orontes de Peverelle, nearly knocking over his goblet. The Hoggewartes champion unfastened the note from its leg with a look of exasperation, turned to the Gryphon-d'Or beside him, and seemed to mouth the words, "my father." He crumpled the note and then Vanished it with a flick of his wand.

After breakfast, the Highmaster summoned Rudiger to meet him back on the Durmstrang _koch_.

"Krasa Baikisheva informs me that you are three points behind Bels-bastons," he said in German. "Do you believe second place is acceptable, Rudiger?"

"No, Hoogmester. But…"

"And you will no doubt protest that you would have been in first place had not the Deputy Highmistress commanded you to let the Englishman and the Frenchman face each other in the final round of the first task."

_Yes, Hoogmester_. Rudiger thought it, but could not bring himself to say it aloud.

"It was the correct decision," Highmaster van Durmstrang continued. "It is only a pity you were not able to capitalize on it."

The Durmstrang champion stood silent before his Highmaster.

"Be that as it may, the challenge before you is now to score a decisive victory in the third task."

"Yes, Hoogmester."

The Highmaster pulled a black velvet pouch from inside his robes.

"Krasa Baikisheva says you have preserved the one secret you can use to your advantage?"

Rudiger nodded.

"There can be no room for error," he said. "No moment of weakness or indecision. You must win. Do you understand?" He tossed the pouch to Rudiger, who plucked it out of the air even though his hands were subtly trembling.

He loosened the drawstring and peered inside.

"Hoogmester, I don't—"

"A second secret," the Highmaster said with a shrug. "Just pack them away in your satchel," he continued as Rudiger attempted to protest. "I'm sure you will be able to find a use for them."

Rudiger felt suddenly deflated, but he refused to betray his emotions.

"As you wish, Hoogmester."

* * *

><p>• The earliest surviving treatise on fencing, dated around AD 1300, describes a system of fighting with sword and buckler (small shield).<p>

• In 1295, Easter fell on the 10th of April. (Passover was on the 2nd of April.)


	9. Into the Forest

Aengus leaned back in his chair. "This is a private feud your king is involved in. It shouldn't surprise you his own barons are unwilling to get in the middle of it."

Roger of St. Catchpole threw up his hands. "Then why on earth would Scottish wizards want to weigh in? This is a very dangerous game your Wizard's Council is playing, Aengus. And the last I heard, Philip doesn't fancy you Scots any more than he does the English."

"Things change," Aengus said. At least, if the latest reports from the wizarding ambassador to France could be believed, they might well do so very soon.

The Scottish wizard sipped his firewhiskey and watched as his English counterpart pondered this last statement.

"This is neither here nor there," Headmistress Custance broke in. She gazed across the table in her private dining room first at one wizard, then the other. "I called this meeting to discuss security, not politics. We simply cannot let Muggle affairs engulf the Triwizard Tournament. It's still two weeks until the third task. Shall we please try to keep our heads for that long?"

"Indeed," Roger said.

"I'm afraid this may be largely out of our hands, Headmistress," Aengus said. "Everyone knows what happened in Wales. Longshanks was successful—this time. But I assure you there are plenty of Scots—both Muggle and wizard—who watched how that drama played out. Some of us are beginning to wonder if now is the time to assert Scottish independence."

"And openly side with the French?" Roger accused.

Aengus merely shrugged. "When a people have been mistreated long enough, Roger, there is no telling where they may seek aid. But you have my assurance I will do everything in my power to maintain a tone of civility as we approach the third task."

Roger seemed to relax in his chair, but only for a second.

"You must rest assured, however, that we Scots will defend ourselves if you English provoke us."

Custance glared across the table at Aengus, who decided he had said enough.

* * *

><p>"Good luck, Georges!" Elena smiled at Gershom as she left the Rafne-claue table after dinner. The Bels-bastons champion absentmindedly rearranged the vegetables and cheeses on his trencher. He had no appetite, but forced himself to eat at least a little. He knew he would need his strength for the third task. He had done everything he knew to do: a collection of potions and herbs was already packed in his satchel, along with the <em>segulot<em> he had spent the last month preparing.

Nearly everyone had finished eating. He glanced across the room at the two other champions. Rudiger from Durmstrang bore a look of grim determination. Orontes from Hoggewartes, he realized, had already left the Gryphon-d'Or table. His father, a lean wizard with just a touch of gray at his temples, had summoned him out of the Great Hall a few minutes earlier. From his expression, the Hoggewartes champion did not relish whatever his father had to say to him.

The sun didn't set until well after dinner. Gershom retired to his cabin in the Bels-bastons carriage, performed his evening prayers, and sat on his bed in silence for few minutes. At last, a knock on his door shook him back to the present.

"It is time, Georges," Headmaster Ydevert said.

"Coming," he called. He slung his satchel over his shoulder then pulled on his cloak. It was a clear night; it was bound to turn cold once the sun had fully set.

"Are you sure you won't reconsider?" Headmaster Ydevert said. "I have a pair of winged boots and several magic rings in my room."

Gershom attempted to keep his cool. "No, Headmaster. If I'm meant to win, I want to win honestly."

"I doubt the other champions will be such sticklers for the rules."

"Then let them live with their decisions, as I must live with mine."

Ydevert escorted him to the edge of the forest, where the crowd of spectators had already filled up the rows of benches set up there for the occasion. The sun was low on the horizon.

Gershom eyed the other champions. Rudiger, the tall, broad-shouldered German, peered into his satchel as if trying to decide if he had forgotten something—or perhaps packed too much. Orontes seemed distracted, but determined. Unlike the other two, he wore a sheathed sword at his side and a buckler slung across his back.

The portly friar who had been an avid spectator at the first two tasks bowed before him. Rising up, he extended his hand and traced the sign of the cross in Gershom's direction.

"The Lord be with you, young man."

"Erm…thank you, sir…I, uh…"

"We are all God's children," he said, a genial smile breaking across his round face.

Bewildered, Gershom watched as the mendicant proceeded to greet and bless the other two champions in turn.

Professor de Scarpin, the Hoggewartes Charms teacher, called the three champions aside. With Custance, Ydevert, and van Durmstrang hovering behind him, he instructed each to set his satchel on the ground. He waved his wand in front of each of them in turn.

"They've not concealed any magic on their persons," he said.

"Indeed?" said Highmaster van Durmstrang. He whipped out his own wand and performed a similar magic-detecting charm first on Orontes, then on Gershom. Gershom took his dissatisfied grunt as acknowledgement that the Charms teacher had told the truth.

Professor de Scarpin then conjured three cylindrical brass lanterns, one for each champion.

"May I have your attention?" Roger of St. Catchpole called the crowd to order. Gershom, Orontes, and Rudiger stood in a semi-circle, their backs to the crowd, facing the English Councilwizard.

"Earlier this evening, Councilwizard Aengus and I confiscated the wands of the three champions. They have been placed beside the Triwizard Cup, in the hollow of an oak tree deep in the forest."

A murmur of concern and disbelief rippled through the crowd.

"The wands—and the Cup—are guarded by three creatures that have been set loose to prowl the forest, "Roger continued. "One each to represent the homelands of the three competing schools."

He turned to the three champions. "Your task is simple: retrieve the Triwizard Cup from the heart of the forest and bring it back to this spot. The first champion back will be awarded ten points and—since the scores at this stage are so close—will be declared the winner of this first Triwizard Tournament.

"Seeing as the Bels-bastons champion is currently in the lead, he shall be awarded a two-minute head start. He will then be followed by the Durmstrang champion and, two minutes after that, the Hoggewartes champion. Does everyone understand?"

The three champions nodded.

"Very well, and good luck to you all. On my mark…"

Gershom set his lantern on the ground and reached inside his satchel. He drew out a brass and iron ring, which he quickly slipped onto the middle finger of his right hand.

"Begin!"

The Bels-bastons champion retrieved his lantern and began to trot toward the forest, at the same time fumbling in his satchel until he found a second _segulah_: this one inscribed not on the face of a ring but on a silver amulet on a chain he hurriedly pulled over his head one-handed. He tucked the amulet inside his tunic.

The path into the forest began wide and well-trodden but quickly narrowed. A hundred yards or so in, it split in two. Gershom closed his eyes and attempted to clear his mind of distraction. Somewhere ahead was his wand. He knew what the magic in it felt like—the fierce quickness of the amphisbaena core, the strength and flexibility of the ash—but was he too far away for it to draw him to the correct path?

Not entirely convinced it was the right way, he decided on the right fork. The sun had barely set, but the forest seemed unnaturally dark. He lifted the lantern. It's pungent, smoky flame made little difference in the twilight. In another hour or so, Gershom was sure, it would be his salvation.

He proceeded deeper into the forest. He studied the ground. Might they have taken the Cup on foot rather than using a broom? The ground was damp but not muddy. Gershom saw no footprints.

From somewhere up ahead came a blood-curdling shriek. Gershom started. He brushed his hand over the amulet dangling under his tunic at his breast. Slowly and cautiously, he crept forward. A second sound answered the first: a low, distant grumbling that seemed to rattle the entire forest. Whatever it was, it was big. It was _very_ big.

He pondered shutting the faceplate of the lantern, but realized that whatever was out there would still be able to smell the smoke. There was nothing for it but to press on. He extended his right hand, balled in a fist, and continued on.

* * *

><p>At the edge of the forest, the crowd huddled in the deepening dark. Fire baskets were lit all around the stands, and a drama troupe made up of Hoggewartes students performed a satirical pantomime about Saint Mungo and a wizard who had been badly hexed by his wife.<p>

Ydevert studied the sky, thankful for a cloudless night and a brightly shining moon. Behind him in the stands, spectators from Hoggesmede debated the chances of the Hoggewartes champion coming from behind to win the Tournament.

"Never happen," an older witch declared. "The German boy's too powerful, and the Frenchy's too clever. Handled that maze like it was nuthin'! You ask me, it's the Frenchy's to lose."

Her companion, also a gray-haired witch, shook her head. "I say it depends on what sorts o' beasties they've let loose in the wood. Let's see how far that French boy's brains get him against a Cù Sith…"

"So, ye fancy the English lad, eh Florie?"

The second witch muttered an epithet that made Ydevert's cheeks turn red as beets. He scanned the horizon, thinking he had sighted a large winged shadow skimming over the treetops a mile or so in the distance.

"Long night ahead," Headmistress Custance commented to no one in particular.

Ydevert grunted in agreement. He hadn't the slightest inkling what a "kooshee" was, but he couldn't imagine it being any worse that the creatures he knew were afoot in the forest.

"Let us hope it isn't too long."

* * *

><p>• English barons were reluctant to furnish either money or personal service for King Edward's attempt to recapture Gascony. This slowed his war preparations at the outset and ultimately frustrated them.<p>

• As late as March 1295, King Philip still viewed the Scots as enemies as much as the English, but two months later he had changed his mind, regarding them rather as friends. I have written this story as if the Scots warmed to the idea a Franco-Scottish alliance faster than the French did, and leave it to the readers to decide how much wizarding intervention may have been involved in King Philip's reversal of policy.

• Madog ap Llewellyn's rebellion was finally put down in March 1295, but the Welsh resistance to English rule likely made a profound impression on the Scots. The First War of Scottish Independence began a year later in March 1296.

• Rather than plates, most people in the Middle Ages ate off squared pieces of stale bread called trenchers. At the end of the meal, the trencher could be eaten with sauce, but was more frequently given as alms to the poor.

• Medieval lanterns were almost exclusively built to hold candles, which were most often made of tallow (animal fat) with a braided rush wick.


	10. The Triwizard Cup

Highmaster van Durmstrang feigned mild amusement with the mummers and the fire-jugglers, but was reaching the end of his patience with the Gryphons-d'Or and their demonstration of mock-combat with Muggle weapons. The champions had been in the forest for well over an hour. He hoped Rudiger would soon emerge, Triwizard Cup in hand. But however long it took for the Durmstrang champion to prevail, the highmaster had no intention of permitting the planned entertainments to persist for another agonizing minute.

The crowd clapped appreciatively as the final combatants exited the stage. A hawker selling fruits and hand-held pastries bumped the highmaster from behind as he collected copper Knuts from spectators higher in the stands.

Brushing his wispy silver hair out of his face, he considered the crowd. How best to get a rise out of them?

"You ask me, I still favor the French boy," a cracking voice announced from a few rows back. For the most part, the highmaster had managed to ignore the two witches who had been incessantly debating which champion would prevail. Now, however, he perked up his ears.

"You like him 'cause he's crafty," a second voice said.

"Well, that's the point, innit, Anabella? To see who's the best wizard?"

"There's craftiness, Florie, and then there's good old-fashioned talent. Now, that German boy…"

The first witch, Florie, brushed off her friend's comment with a mild oath. Highmaster van Durmstrang surreptitiously reached for the grip of his wand inside his blood-red cloak.

"That lug? He's all flash, I say. Though he is good looking, mind. There's no doubt about that!"

The highmaster saw his chance. With a deft nonverbal spell, he caused a third voice to rise in the stands. "Anybody but the English boy. He's a rotten cheat!"

Voices throughout the stands arose in shock. Some distance away, the Peverelle boy's father's cheeks suddenly reddened as he glared over his shoulder into the crowds.

"Who said that?" a voice thundered from the opposite side. It was one of the younger Gryphons-d'Or, a short, pudgy boy just regaining his seat after participating in the fencing exhibition.

"You heard me," van Durmstrang caused to be said in an angry voice. "Orontes de Peverelle is a filthy cheater, just like all the English!"

The elder de Peverelle had by this time stood up drawn his wand, although he kept it pointed toward the ground. A number of Hoggesmede villagers nodded and murmured among themselves.

Headmistress Custance rose from her seat. "That is a serious accusation," she called, eyeing the crowd with her penetrating glare. "Do you have any proof? Show yourself!"

"No one accuses a Gryphon-d'Or of cheating!" Peverelle's classmate shouted, fist in the air.

"Cadwgan, please!" Headmistress Custance called.

"Is it true?" a villager said in a thick highland brogue, rising to his feet. "Is the Englishman cheating? What has he done?"

This was working better than Highmaster van Durmstrang could have hoped. He turned around in his seat, showing a concerned gaze to the crowd.

"There should be an investigation!" a Bels-bastons student cried. "The third task should be postponed until the judges get to the bottom of this!"

"People, people!" the village friar said. "I'm sure this is all some sort of misunderstanding…"

"Headmistress," van Durmstrang said, "perhaps we judges should retire to some quiet place to discuss this matter?"

* * *

><p>Gershom sat cross-legged on the grass, gazing into his lantern's candlelight. The narrow path forked before him: gently to the left and sharply to the right. Try as he might, he couldn't quite achieve the proper frame of mind to catch a vision of where the Triwizard Cup was hidden.<p>

"Divination!" he spat. Master Cyprien had always said he lacked the Gift. He had hoped, however, that just this once…

"Ooff!" Suddenly Gershom was sprawling on the ground. He came up quickly, right hand held in front of him in a fist.

"Having any luck?"

It was Rudiger. Gershom immediately noticed he was not carrying the lantern he had been given. Instead, he held what looked like a tiny glowing crystal ball in his hand.

"Would I tell you if I was?" There was no way Gershom would ever admit to the German boy that he had passed this very spot twice before and was no closer to finding his way through the forest.

The Durmstrang champion shrugged. "No more than I would."

"We both want to win, there's no point denying it."

"Why do we even bother?" Rudiger said. "This isn't about us. It isn't about 'eternal glory.' It's just an excuse for our schools to congratulate themselves over how great they are."

There was another loud shriek, closer than Gershom had heard it before.

"You'd better get moving. Something's tracking me!"

Gershom's heart skipped a beat. "What?"

"You'll see!" the German grinned, then threw something on the ground that immediately exploded into a wall of smoke and flames.

Gershom tried not to inhale any of the billowing smoke, but at last his lungs demanded air. As soon as he drew in a labored breath, he regretted it. In an instant he was on his hands and knees, hacking and wheezing.

The shriek gave way to a low chattering. Whatever had been following Rudiger was very close.

Gershom dared to lift his eyes.

There was a cloaked human form in the distance. Gershom couldn't decide if it was the Hoggewartes champion or someone else.

"No closer!" he coughed, brandishing his ring. The figure looked at him imploringly. It took a step.

"I said no closer!"

The smoke was finally beginning to clear. The cloaked figure continued to move forward step by step, but Gershom was no longer convinced it was a man at all. It slouched forward onto all fours. Gershom's heart was racing. Beads of sweat ran down his cheeks in sheets. His hand began to tremble.

It was a greyhound—but larger and fiercer-looking than any greyhound Gershom had ever seen. It snarled and pawed the earth, all the while looking up at the Bels-bastons champion with gleaming eyes.

_Fear_, Gershom thought, his stomach churning. _Its weapon is fear_.

The creature launched itself on his powerful hind legs and plowed into Gershom with a single bound. The two of them went rolling on the ground. The creature bit and snapped, all the while keeping up its eerie, angry chattering. Somehow Gershom managed to throw it off.

Once again the Bels-bastons champion brandished his ring. This time the protective wards inscribed within the _segulah_ seemed to take effect. The creature paced back and forth, hesitant to approach. As it did so, its form changed again. Its forelimbs grew longer, like those of a great, emaciated ape or perhaps a wingless bat. Its hind limbs fused together, creating the impression of a one-legged man walking on bizarre fleshly crutches. Its face was like something out of a nightmare—a combination of canine ferocity and human cleverness. It let out a blood-curdling shriek and made to draw nearer.

Gershom stood his ground, displaying the _segulah_ with greater confidence than he in fact possessed.

"Away with you!" he shouted. When the creature refused to yield, he stomped and rushed at it.

The creature leaped at Gershom, who buried his ringed fist deep in its underbelly. It let out a howl that might have awoken the dead as it spun Gershom around and retreated into the forest.

The Bels-bastons champion's legs buckled, and he fell to the ground. Only then did he realize the creature—whatever it was—had ripped a hole in his side. The blood oozed out red and warm, already beginning to coagulate. He shuddered to think what would have happened if it weren't for the protective _segulah_ he wore around his neck. Gershom reached in his satchel for the Healing Potion he had prepared weeks ago.

He took a swig of the potion and applied several generous splashes to the wound itself. In a matter of seconds, the bleeding had stopped. His side was still sore and tight, however, and probably would be so for days.

"Aaargh!"

The cry came from overhead. Gershom looked upward. Despite the clear sky and the nearly full moon, it was almost impossible to make out what was going on. There was no doubt, however, that he had heard the flapping of large, powerful wings.

Another shriek echoed through the forest. This was different from the sound the first creature had made. This sounded more like the call of some terrible predatory bird. And the human voice was almost surely that of Orontes de Peverelle.

_Now what?_ Gershom thought to himself. He figured he had nothing to lose by following the sound. Whatever creatures they had let loose in the forest were supposed to be guarding the Triwizard Cup, after all. Maybe he just found a little bit of luck after all. Collecting his lantern, he listened again and headed off in the direction the sound was coming from.

He followed the sound of the shrieks and the shouting for five or ten minutes. Deeper into the forest he went, until he had long passed the familiar paths on which he had been walking in circles.

Ahead of him there was a crashing noise. The birdlike shriek seemed to register either pain or surprise—but the human voice went silent.

Gershom forced himself to slow down, to proceed cautiously. This time, he had time to prepare. He reached into his satchel for a small cloth pouch.

Suddenly there was a flash of light. The birdlike shriek once again protested.

Gershom turned a corner. Ahead of him, Orontes had propped himself against a tree. In front of him was a creature as big as a horse—but about as unlike a horse as anything Gershom could have imagined. Its head, chest, forelimbs, and wings were those of a monster eagle, but it had the hindquarters of a lion.

_A griffon! _he gasped.

The creature slashed at Orontes with its claws. The Hoggewartes champion was in bad shape. His face was covered with scratches and his cloak and tunic were torn and bloodied. Gershom at last saw that his lower leg was bent at an impossible angle—a sure sign of broken bones.

The Hoggewartes champion held his lantern aloft in his left hand. In his right, he held what looked like a sliver of thinly sliced wood. Gershom could make out some sort of geometric shape inscribed upon it, but couldn't identify its significance.

"You want another?" Orontes shouted defiantly through obvious pain.

One of the griffon's wings was limp, Gershom noticed. Glancing at the broken branches on the ground, he surmised it had taken a hard landing, no doubt with Orontes hanging on for dear life.

The griffon slashed yet again.

Orontes touched the slip of wood to the flame in his lantern. There was a sudden explosion of fire and light. Gershom ducked behind his tree just as a wall of fire sped past him. When he turned around again, the griffon had been bowled over, its feathers badly singed.

_A Rune Charm_, he thought to himself. Bels-bastons didn't teach Runes—a Scandinavian branch of magic—but he had heard of Rune Charms. Inscribe a piece of wood or parchment with the proper mystic symbols and it activates a predetermined spell when ignited. He sighed in appreciation of the Hoggewartes champion's resourcefulness.

Orontes had pulled another slip of wood from his satchel. From the look on his face, however, he could pass out any minute.

"Just go!" Gershom whispered at the griffon, which was now back on its feet and madder than ever. If the beast would simply leave, Gershom could proceed. There was obviously no more reason to worry about Orontes winning the Cup.

Orontes shouted at the creature and waved his arm at it.

Thankfully, the griffon decided it had had enough. It trotted away, flapping its injured wing to not effect.

As soon as the griffon was out of sight, Gershom bolted down the path past the spot where Orontes now slumped over.

He glanced back long enough to see the Hoggewartes champion pulling a metal vial from his satchel.

_Good_, Gershom thought. _He thought to bring Healing Potion as well._ But he couldn't wait to see if it worked. Rudiger was still somewhere ahead of him. He might have even already reached the Triwizard Cup.

The Bels-bastons champion trudged forward. He was sure he sensed the presence of his wand now. But more telling, he heard the unmistakable sounds of a struggle in the distance.

He clutched his aching side and picked up his pace. There was a light in the distance—a crisp silvery glow like that which shone from Rudiger's glowing orb. Now, however, it seemed almost as bright as day.

One last turn, and Gershom was stood before a large depression surrounded by a horseshoe-shaped ridge. At the far end was a monstrous oak, bigger and older than any Gershom had ever seen before. At the base of its trunk was a hollow in which the Triwizard Cup glowed faintly.

But Gershom couldn't worry about the Cup just then, for in the middle of the depression was a scene of pure chaos.

The creature was bigger than an ox, reptilian, with six short, muscled legs and a horn-covered armored carapace protecting its back. Its face was an array of saber-like teeth. Its low, rumbling growl shook the earth.

Twenty feet away, a huge golden bear reared up on its hind legs and roared. It set off at a run toward the creature, moving faster than should have been possible. The two beasts crashed into each other and threw a cloud of dust and debris into the air.

Gershom started. Orontes had managed to catch up to him, but he was still white-faced and in obvious pain. The Bels-bastons champion glanced down long enough to notice that his leg was still bent. The Healing Potion stopped the bleeding and probably mended the bone, but the Englishman had no way to set it properly.

The Hoggewartes champion stood in wide-eyed astonishment. "What the hell is that?"

"A tarasque," he said, turning back to the ongoing melee.

"Some kind of dragon?"

"There are no dragons native to France," Gershom said. He jabbed his thumb toward the creature in the clearing. "Some say that's why."

"But where is…? Merlin's beard!" Orontes spat. He gestured to a spot not ten feet away where a satchel had been discarded. It was from there that Rudiger's glowing orb shone in the darkness.

Gershom noticed it as soon as Orontes did.

"That bear…" he said.

"The Durmstranger is an Animagus!"

The tarasque bellowed. The bear had found a weak spot on the underside of the creature's squat neck and bit down hard. It soon shook free, however, and batted the bear away with a clawed forelimb.

The bear attacked again, but the tarasque was ready for it. This time, a dragonlike claw slashed the bear's shoulder. A ribbon of blood spurted upward. The tarasque spun on the spot, and its tail, thick as a tree limb, flung the bear into the air. It only stopped—with a bone-breaking crack—when it hit the tree beneath which the wands and the Triwizard Cup rested.

Rudiger began to resume human form as he fell.

Orontes gasped.

"Is he dead?" Gershom whispered.

"No," Orontes said. But it was clear the Durmstrang champion was not well. His clothes were covered in blood, and his face was unnaturally pale. He lay on his back, perfectly still except for the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

The tarasque turned toward the crumpled form of Rudiger van Mecklenburg. It tentatively sniffed the air. It must have decided the German boy was no longer a threat, as it lost interest after batting him around for only a few seconds.

"We've got to do something," Gershom said. "He'll die unless one of us can get to those wands!"


	11. The Tarasque

"What are you doing?" Orontes hissed.

George had grabbed Rudiger's abandoned satchel and was now storming toward the Hoggewartes champion.

"Let me help you," he said, reaching out his hand.

Orontes glanced over George's shoulder, where the tarasque pawed the ground. It had perked up its leathery ears at the sound of George's movement. All at once Orontes remembered the stabbing pain below the knee of his left leg, the fiery agony that erupted every time he tried to put any weight on it.

With a hiss of pain he allowed the Bels-bastons champion to pull his arm up over his shoulders so he could help Orontes walk. They stumbled together for no more than fifty feet or so when Orontes gave out. He fell face-forward onto the grass. He willed himself not to cry out in pain.

They both shuddered as the tarasque let out a rumbling, earth-shaking growl. Thankfully, it didn't seem inclined to follow them out of its clearing.

"Let me look at that leg," George whispered. Orontes was in no position to resist. He winced as George ran his hand across his bloody shin.

"The wound has closed up well enough," he judged, "but the bone didn't set right. Someone will have to re-break it and set it properly."

"I'll let that wait till morning if it's the same to you."

"Take this." George offered the Hoggewartes champion a vial of potion from his satchel. "And sniff a little of this—but only a little!" He held out a small leather pouch he had been clutching ever since Orontes first noticed him at the edge of the clearing. He eyed the offerings warily.

"Wit-Sharpending Potion," he explained. "You'll need it or this will put you out for hours." He indicated the pouch.

Orontes uncorked the vial and gave it a sniff. It did, indeed, have the exotic gingery smell of a Wit-Sharpening Potion.

"What's in the pouch?"

"My own recipe," the Bels-bastons champion said. "Powdered valerian root, essence of asphodel, fairy wings, the usual…. I intended it as a sleeping powder, but a little whiff should dull the pain."

Orontes dared to bring the pouch closer to his face and gave it a tentative sniff. Almost immediately he felt his eyelids growing heavy. His mind became cloudy, but the pain in his leg also seemed to vanish."

"Here," George said, reminding him of the Wit-Sharpening Potion. Orontes took one sip, then another.

"Rudiger!" Orontes said. The relief from his pain and the effects of George's potion combined to remind him of the Durmstrang champion, still lying unconscious on the other side of the tarasque's clearing.

"We've got to do something," George said. "We can't just let him die, even if he is the competition."

"Have you forgotten that I'm your competition as well?"

George sighed. "As far as I'm concerned, the tournament is suspended until the German is safe."

"You think he would do the same for us?"

"No," George said without a moment's hesitation.

"How are we supposed to get past that thing?" Orontes said.

"We'll have to pool our resources. Have you got any more of those Rune Charms I saw you using?" The Bels-bastons champion had begun to rummage through Rudiger's satchel. By the light of the glowing orb, he lined up a half-dozen small potion vials, a knife, a bezoar, a metal flask, and a black velvet pouch.

"Wait a minute! You can't just use his magic! The rules say—"

"And you always follow the rules to the letter, is that right, Gryphon-d'Or?"

Orontes fell suddenly silent.

"Listen," George continued. "If you want, I'll go capture the Cup by myself. I _am_ the only champion who's still able to walk, after all. And I've still got a couple of tricks up my sleeve. But I'd rather the three of us get out of this forest alive. So, what do you say?"

Orontes paused for only a second before conceding to the Bels-bastons champion's logic. "I've got one or two Rune Charms left," Orontes said. "But I'm not sure—"

"Solomon's seal!" George interrupted. He had loosened the drawstring on Rudiger's pouch and emptied a number of ivory-colored objects into his hand. They were as long as a man's fingers, pointed and curved like tiny scimitars, and serrated along the inner edge.

"Are those…?"

George nodded, eyes wide. "Dragon's teeth."

"There's no way the German charmed himself a bag of dragon's teeth!" Orontes blurted. "That's too advanced for any of us!"

"He had help," George said with a shrug. "He was cheating."

The Bels-bastons champion replaced the dragon's teeth in their pouch and set them aside. He began to uncork the Durmstrang champion's potions and attempt to identify them by their aroma.

"A couple of Healing Potions…Wiggenweld…I don't recognize this one at all…nor this…ugh! definitely some kind of poison in this last one."

"What's in the flask?" Orontes asked.

George removed the cap and gave it a sniff. He splashed a little into his hand and tentatively brought it to his tongue.

"Water," he said.

"For the dragon's teeth," Orontes said. "That's not much to work with." He paused. He braced himself for what he had to say next. "Listen, George…"

"Hang on," George said. "I'll be right back. See if you can figure out what those other two potions are." And before Orontes could say anything more, the Bels-bastons champion had disappeared into the wood in the direction from which they had come.

Orontes struggled to regain his footing. The pain in his leg had subsided, but he could tell it still wouldn't bear much weight. He pulled his satchel off his back and reached inside.

George had only been gone for a minute or two when Orontes heard movement in the trees coming the other way. He lifted up his lantern and squinted into the darkness. A hunched figure scurried back into the trees.

Orontes drew his sword and swung his buckler off his back and pulled his arm through the leather straps.

"Who goes there?" he challenged.

The forest was suddenly silent. Orontes glanced about in every direction, his sword extended, his back against the nearest tree. Tentatively, he allowed his weight to rest on his injured leg. He winced, but found the sensation wasn't nearly as painful as before.

Behind him, Orontes heard the sound of footsteps trudging down the path that led to the tarasque's clearing. At last he caught a glimpse of curly brown hair atop a slight, cloaked figure who sprinted toward him.

"What's the situation?" Orontes called. "Any ideas about—?"

The curly-haired figure looked up. It wasn't the Bels-bastons champion. In fact, the cloaked form wasn't even human, but a ghastly doglike creature that suddenly dropped to all fours and bounded toward Orontes.

The Hoggewartes champion raised his shield against the onslaught. The creature, which now seemed to have the form of a large, ferocious greyhound, bowled him over. Fortunately, Orontes's shield prevented its teeth from coming near his body.

Flat on his back, Orontes whacked away with his sword. He landed a solid blow to the creature's flank and it rolled off him, jabbering and shrieking. It quickly regained its feet, however, and prepared to lunge at Orontes again. The Hoggewartes champion scooted back toward the tree, bracing himself to stand.

The creature chattered softly as it glared at its prey with venomous yellow eyes.

"Ha!"

The creature spun around as George came into view. He held a leather pouch above his head, ready to throw. The creature hesitated, unsure which of the two wizards to attack. The second it sprung toward George, the Bels-bastons champion hurled his pouch at it.

The creature shrieked as a fine orangey dust exploded from the pouch and coated its face, shoulders, and forelimbs. It retreated into the forest, howling in pain.

Orontes sheathed his sword and pulled himself to his feet. "Thanks."

"Didn't seem to like my Stinging Dust. Some kind of shapeshifter, I take it? I saw it earlier."

"Yeah," Orontes said. "Probably a biasd bheulach. They like to take the form of greyhounds. And they like to drink human blood."

"Well, we haven't any time to worry about a 'beest vaylock' or whatever you called it. Rudiger looks bad. I can't tell if he's breathing. We need to act now or…."

"About that…"

"How's your leg? If I draw the tarasque away, do you think you're strong enough to get to your wand?"

"George, there's something I need to show you."

"What? I told you, we've no time to—"

Orontes pulled a silky, shimmering substance from his satchel. He held it in front of him and let it unfurl to its full length.

George blinked.

"I swear I wasn't going to use this," Orontes said. "My father insisted I take it, but I wasn't going to use it. I'd rather lose than win by cheating."

George reached out his hand to touch the translucent cloth.

"It's an Invisibility Cloak," Orontes said. "It belonged to my grandfather…. So, yeah…I think I can get past that thing and get to our wands…. How well does a tarasque hear, anyway?"

"Pretty well, I think," George whispered.

"I've been thinking," Orontes continued. "Rudiger got as far as he did without using those dragon's teeth…. Maybe he didn't want to cheat, either. That's why they were still in his bag."

"Well…" George said, "we won't be able to ask him if we don't get moving."

* * *

><p>Gershom crept to the edge of the clearing, his pouch of Sleeping Powder in hand. He left his lantern back where he and Orontes had hatched their plan, such as it was. Instead, Rudiger's glowing orb was tucked away inside his cloak until he needed it.<p>

The Triwizard Cup gave off its own dim light, just enough to see the tarasque pacing this way and that. It could hear—or perhaps smell—that intruders were nearby.

He didn't dare call to Orontes. He had to trust that the Hoggewartes champion was near, edging around the horseshoe-shaped ridge as quietly as possible.

The tarasque perked up its ears and let out a low, wary rumble.

Gershom took a deep breath. It was time for action. He hoped his _segulot_ were strong enough to keep him alive.

The Bels-bastons champion stepped into the clearing. Immediately the tarasque pivoted its massive form to face him. It opened its mouth to utter a roar that shook the birds out of the trees.

Gershom took two steps forward and threw his pouch directly into the creature's face. A cloud of purplish-gray smoke wafted around it. Its eyelids seemed to droop, and for an instant Gershom felt almost optimistic.

He tossed Rudiger's orb into the center of the clearing. At the same time, he began edging toward the righthand side of the ridge.

The tarasque wobbled once or twice—the sudden flash of light momentarily added to its confusion—but then seemed to shake off the effects of Gershom's powder. It grumbled and murmured. Gershom could feel sound waves vibrating in his own chest. A couple more steps put him a good bit higher than the depression in which the tarasque stalked quickly in his direction.

As it was about to pounce, he held forth his right hand. His _segulah_ seemed to gleam in the silvery light of Rudiger's orb.

The tarasque backed off, apparently startled or (Gershom hoped) smarting in pain from the talisman's effects. He doubted his _segulah_ could long hold a creature that size at bay, however.

He inched a little further. The tarasque let out another fierce roar. Then without warning, it turned around, sniffing the air, ears bolt upright.

_Look out, Gryphon-d'Or_, Gershom thought. _It's on to you_.

The creature stalked toward the left ridge of the horseshoe. Gershom took the opportunity to move more quickly on the right side. One of the two champions would surely make it to the wands. They had to.

Beneath him, Gershom saw the still, pale form of the Durmstrang champion spread-eagled on the ground. His clothing was torn and bloody, and his face and arms were a tangle of bruises and cuts. He searched in vain for any sign of movement.

The tarasque roared again and pounced up onto the crest of the ridge. Gershom couldn't see what it was attacking—which he took for a good sign. He heard Orontes shriek and swear. Gershom took heart the Hoggewarter was at least still alive.

The tarasque continued to leap onto the ridge, pawing at the ground and uprooting trees. Gershom saw his chance. He jumped down into the depression, hopped over Rudiger, and approached the hollow of the tree where the Triwizard Cup rested alongside three wands.

He reached out. His wand practically leaped into his hand. Immediately, he spun and knelt beside the wounded German boy. He placed his hand to his chest and sighed with relief that he was still breathing—albeit shallowly.

He waved his wand and whispered, "_Arukatka m'herah titzmah_!" A golden gleam bathed Rudiger's body. Gershom grinned as he saw the Durmstrang champion begin to stir. He reached for his satchel, for the Healing Potion he had retrieved from Rudiger's supplies.

"George!"

Gershom reared up at Orontes's shout just in time to see the tarasque bolting toward him. Emboldened now that he had his wand, he aimed a Scorching Hex directly at the creature. It veered away, but not before swinging its massive tail in his direction. It knocked the breath out of him and sent him flying to the ground.

In a second he was up again. The _segulah_ under his tunic had protected him once again from serious injury. He glanced upward. Orontes had doffed his Invisibility Cloak and was speeding in his direction.

With a flick of his wand, he sent the Hoggewartes champion's own wand flying toward him. He caught it in midair with a whoop and leaped into the depression, firing a crimson Stunning Spell toward the tarasque as he hit the ground, then crumpled in pain.

By then Gershom had managed to hoist the larger German champion to his feet. The two of them stumbled together toward Orontes.

"_Ferula_!" Orontes cried, his face red with pain, his wand pointed at his own leg. Splints and bandages magically appeared, binding his broken limb.

The tarasque roared again. It charged toward them, shaking the ground under their feet.

As one, Gershom and Orontes fired Stunners at the creature. It slowed, dazed, but was still very much aware of its surroundings.

"Again!" Gershom called, and another barrage of Stunners at last caused the creature to topple over.

"The Cup!" Orontes called. "That thing isn't going to stay out long!"

The two champions backed away, reaching the Triwizard Cup in a heartbeat. Gershom was still half-dragging the Durmstrang champion, who was barely conscious.

Gershom stared up at Orontes.

"What now?" he said. "Who…?"

The tarasque began to stir almost immediately.

"Take the Cup!" Orontes called. "Get Rudiger to the Healers. Now!"


	12. Victory

Orontes watched as the Bels-bastons champion slipped the German's wand into his belt and scooped up the Triwizard Cup.

George whispered "_Mobilicorpus_," and Rudiger's half-conscious body slipped off his shoulder and began to float beside him. The tarasque bellowed once more. Levitating the Durmstrang champion in front of him, George edged around the side of the clearing while Orontes waved his arms frantically and moved in the opposite direction.

The creature charged at Orontes, who somehow got out of its way and let it crash headlong into the crest of the ridge. The Sleeping Powder had at least slowed it down, but it was still dangerous. Orontes shot a blaze of multicolored sparks into the creature's face, all the while backing toward the entrance to the clearing.

Still guiding Rudiger along with his wand, George exited the clearing and didn't look back. Orontes sighed.

_Now what? _he thought.

The tarasque pawed the ground again.

Orontes reached inside his cloak for his one remaining Rune Charm.

"Do I look tasty, you ugly beast?" he taunted.

He touched his wand to the slip of wood and ignited it with a Fire Charm.

Around him erupted two, four, eight—a full dozen replicas of the Hoggewartes champion. Each had drawn its sword and stood ready to fight. Thirteen Hoggewarters circled around the clearing, obviously confusing the tarasque.

The real Orontes ducked behind one of his doubles, pulled on his Invisibility Cloak, and skulked toward the entrance to the clearing.

The tarasque plowed into three or four of the doppelgangers, which evaporated on contact with a flash of light. The creature roared and spun to strike another target.

As quickly as he could, Orontes made his way to the path.

The earth shook. The tarasque had made short work of Orontes's doubles and now seemed to have figured out that its real quarry had returned the same way he had come. Worse, it seemed to be shaking off the effects of the Sleeping Powder. He didn't know if it was his scent or the sound of his footsteps that gave him away, but it was certain the creature was heading in his direction.

He made it back to the spot where he and George had fought the biasd bheulach. He studied the ground by wand-light. This was definitely the place.

He had convinced George to sow the dragon's teeth in case they needed one last diversion. Now it was apparent they did.

Orontes had no trouble finding the places where the ground had been disturbed. With the tarasque thundering his way, he pulled his wand arm from underneath his Cloak and said, "_Aguamenti_." A jet of water streamed out of the tip of his wand, watering the ground where the dragon's teeth had been planted.

"Hurry up!" he hissed, pulling off the Cloak. But he didn't have to wait long. In a matter of seconds, the ground in front of him began to shift and turn, disturbed from underneath by half a dozen moon-white forms that now began to emerge from the earth like frightful alien plants.

They were warriors—human-shaped but chalky white like the dragon's teeth they used to be. Armed with helmets, shields, and swords, they were little more than animated skeletons wrapped in shimmering, translucent flesh. Unspeaking, they turned toward Orontes. They might have been staring at him, but in truth the Hoggewartes champion discerned no hint of awareness in their vacant, silver eyes.

"That way!" he called, pointing the way he came. "A creature is headed this way. You've got to stop it. Understand?"

The dragon's-teeth warriors neither nodded nor registered comprehension of any sort, but they turned their backs to Orontes and closed ranks.

He didn't wait to see what happened next. Hopefully, the trick bought him a few extra minutes. He had no intention of wasting a single second. Feeling was starting to return to his broken leg. He limped down the path as quickly as he could.

It wasn't long until he caught up with the Bels-bastons champion. Levitating the German and keeping him from drifting into trees along the way proved as time-consuming as trying to run with a broken leg. Rudiger was by that time beginning to stir in earnest—which made it almost impossible to control him with the Levitation Charm. With Orontes's arrival, George released the charm, and the two champions carried the third between them.

The Durmstrang champion was nearly awake and walking on his own by the time they came to the final fork in the path, but even with another application of George's Healing Charm, he looked pale and in deep agony. Orontes suspected he had more than one broken rib and probably some internal damage a proper Healer would have to attend to. Rudiger mumbled to himself in German. The three of them stumbled toward the edge of the forest.

Orontes's jaw dropped as they limped into the clearing.

The spectators were in the midst of an all-out brawl. Several Hoggesmeders and younger students had taken to simple fisticuffs, while most of the remainder had obviously been trying for some time to jinx and hex each other to oblivion.

To one side, young Cadwgan was shouting, "For Hoggewartes! For Gryphon-d'Or" as he blasted a handful of Durmstrangers twice his size with ineffectual Stunning Spells.

Across the way, two older witches had managed to transfigure each other's faces to look, respectively, like a pig and a cross-eyed boarhound.

Headmistress Custance and Headmaster Ydevert tried desperately to gain control of the situation by firing wand-sparks and Impediment Jinxes. Highmaster van Durmstrang and his deputy raised their hands toward their charges, advising—though not precisely _demanding_—that they stand down.

The stands were a jumble of splintered wood—some of which was still on fire. Witches and wizards wallowed on the ground, smarting from all manner of magical insults. By the light of the elevated fire baskets, it seemed the entire grounds were pock-marked by errant curses and strewn with debris.

In the middle of the melee, the fat friar's appeals for calm and forbearance went utterly unheeded.

No one even noticed the three champions' return.

"D'you reckon we should say something?" Orontes said.

"Best we just get the German to the hospital wing. From the look of things, there's going to be a line."

Orontes shrugged. "This way, Rudiger," he said, pointing the still half-dazed Durmstrang champion toward the castle.

George raised his hand to steady the German's wobbly lurch forward.

He let the Triwizard Cup drop to the ground.

* * *

><p>"Forgive the interruption, Your Majesty," Roger said as soon as he stepped out of the emerald fire at Windsor Castle. Edward Longshanks was already on his feet, dagger drawn, eyes afire.<p>

"I'm merely here to follow up on my previous visit," he continued. He wanted get through everything he had to say as quickly as possible and be gone.

The King said nothing.

"Well, erm, I simply came to report that the dangerous creatures I spoke to you about…the ones we were importing for the…the tournament…have now been safely returned. No need to worry—not that there ever w-was, of course, but—"

"Your tournament has concluded, has it?" The king growled.

"Th-that's right," Roger said. He debated saying more, but chose not to. How would he ever explain to the king that no one was entirely sure who had won? That, based on this uncertainty, the declared winner of the first Triwizard Tournament was a Jew, banished from England, competing under the banner of a French wizarding school?

Edward sheathed his dagger as he approached Roger. "This school you mentioned. Hagge-wartes?"

"Hoggewartes, Your Majesty."

"Hoggewartes. Whatever. You said it's in Scotland, eh? So what happens if Scotland tries to give me trouble?" His gaze nearly burned a hole in Roger's forehead. "I've heard rumors that's possible, you know. Where will _you lot_ stand?"

"I…I can only tell Your Majesty that I devoutly hope that such never happens. We are loyal Englishmen…but…Scottish wizards will, I'm sure, prove to be loyal Scots. War with Scotland would be very, very bad for the wizarding community, Your Majesty. Of that much I am confident."

King Edward scowled. He was obviously unsatisfied with what Roger had told him.

"But I will say this," Roger added, "recent events have…dampened the enthusiasm of many in our community for political engagement. I hope that, should the worst come to pass, at least we wizards will have the good sense to stay out of the way."

The King crossed his arms. "Is that all you have to say?"

"Yes, Your Majesty. I believe so. By your leave I'll…erm…bid you good night…."

"Good night, Roger Weaselly."

Roger blushed. He knew other wizards called him that behind his back. Hearing it from his king was another matter entirely. He attempted a pleasant smile. When the king nodded, he bowed his way back to the fireplace, administered a dash of Floo Powder, and vanished, hoping this was the last royal audience he would ever have to endure.

* * *

><p>• Windsor Castle was built by William the Conqueror and served as a royal residence beginning in the time of Henry I (1100–1135).<p>

• The First War of Scottish Independence began in March 1296 and lasted until 1328, although _de facto_ Scottish independence was achieved after the Battle of Bannockburn in 1314.

• A truce between France and England was finally signed on 7 October, 1297—less than a month after William Wallace's victory over English forces at the Battle of Stirling Bridge.


End file.
